


Life on Mars

by spindleweeds



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Modern Girl in Thedas, follows canonical events, hopefully, just a slightly au origins of thedas kinda thing, long fic, slight AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-08-04
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:04:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spindleweeds/pseuds/spindleweeds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Andrastians believe that the Maker has turned His gaze away from Thedas as penance for burning Andraste. Sometimes, however, the Maker can be a man in an expensive Savile Row suit, sitting in his London office overlooking the Thames, sipping on an over-complicated cup of coffee. Sometimes He can be a university lecturer, fascinated by the idea of life elsewhere in the universe. Sometimes He can be an ordinary secondary school teacher, who wants to leave a lasting impression on the world. </p><p>Sometimes He is Robyn Smith, whose uncle embroils her in a conspiracy that shakes Thedas, and Earth, to their very cores. When the gods no longer answer, do you force them into showing their hand, or do you become a god yourself?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. green

**Author's Note:**

> ((I finally got the hang of the text editor so minor edits were made, e.g paragraph spacing, separating dialogue, making the journal entries italic etc))

_BLOOMINGTIDE, 9:20 DRAGON// MAY 7TH 1996_

_EMPRESS CELENE HAS ASCENDED THE THRONE. FERELDEN AND ORLAIS HAVE OFFICIALY MADE PEACE. I’VE BEEN IN DENERIM FOR TWO MONTHS AFTER BEING IN VAL ROYEAUX FOR ONE. THE FERELDANS ARE HAPPY AFTER WHAT SEEMS LIKE AN AGE. THE ORLESIANS MOURN THEIR LOST PROVINCE. OLD HURTS STILL REMAIN._

_LOGHAIN IS SCEPTICAL OF CELENE AND HER PEACE. HE URGES THAT FERELDEN’S BORDERS NEED GREATER PROTECTION. MARIC AGREES. ROWAN AGREES. THE NOBLES AGREE._

_MY WORK HERE IS DONE FOR THE TIME BEING, THEY ASSURE ME, AND SOMEONE ELSE WILL COME TO TAKE MY WATCH._

_MY BAG IS PACKED AND I AM OFF TO THE STORM COAST TOMORROW. I CAN’T WAIT FOR A HOT SHOWER AND A DOUGHNUT._

_-JUDEX_

* * *

 

Sniggering, Robyn closed the tattered journal with a satisfying snap. “Mum! I think I found one of Paul’s Dungeons and Dragons journals!” she called through the entrance to the loft. As she stretched out her legs and brushed her jeans down, clouds of dust floated lazily through the air and caught the light from the torch clamped between her teeth. The creaking of ladder rungs made Robyn look up to see her mother’s grey head pop through the floor.

“Robyn! That might be something very private of your uncle’s!” her mother scolded. Robyn rolled her eyes.

“Yes, but it’s funny! Look, he even gave himself a nickname!” she said, pointing to the signature at the end of the diary entry. “Judex!”

Her mother was clearly unimpressed, if her raised eyebrow was anything to go by. “Yes, yes, very funny. Now dear, you must help your father move some of the boxes downstairs, Lord knows he needs the help.” She disappeared down the ladder once more, leaving Robyn to stand up and pop her joints. With one last look at the old leather diary, she placed it carefully on top of a pile of equally ancient sci-fi novels, and started to descend the ladder with dirt-streaked palms and cobwebs in her hair.

Her father waited expectantly at the bottom with a large cardboard box filled to the brim with silverware and porcelain plates. “Good God, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he teased, reaching out to pull a strand of web from Robyn’s hair. Snorting, Robyn batted his hand away and crouched down to lift the box.

“At least the grey in my hair isn’t permanent,”

“Ouch!” he cried, feigning hurt, and he clutched a hand to his chest. “My own daughter, mocking me!” Although a smile tugged at her lips, Robyn refused to laugh; it was still far too early for that. She cleared her throat.

“Anyway, why does it look like Miss Havisham’s antique sale up there? Did Uncle Paul ever go up there? Did anyone?”

“You know how he was, sweetheart,” her father sighed. He raised a hand to wipe at his sweating brow. Robyn watched as he shuffled boxes and envelopes and packages around, and she could see that he was still mourning, albeit quietly. “He was always so private about his life, his job especially.” Her father lamented.

“Do you wish he told you more?” Robyn asked, setting the box down. She leaned against the dining room table and traced the woodwork with a fingertip, imagining her uncle sitting at the head and eating his microwaved dinner while doing the daily crossword. Her lips stretched into a small smile.

“Sometimes.” He replied. “I always said he was too smart for his own good. It always got him in trouble. I just wished he told me when he did. I was his strong older brother, after all.” He laughed humorously at that, rubbing the back of his neck, and Robyn frowned; maybe he wasn’t coping as well as she thought.

Although her arms and shoulders ached from hauling boxes around all day, she pulled her father into a one-armed hug nonetheless. “Yeah,” she said softly, “It’s hard to believe he’s gone.” Her dad smiled.

“At least he did all he wanted to do. Unlike me, who had to raise two kids for the better part of three decades.” Robyn groaned and loosened her arm, pulling away from her laughing dad to shoot him an annoyed look. “That’s hardly my fault now, is it?”

“Didn't ever say it was, dear. I just hope you don’t spend the next few weeks wallowing in grief. Paul wouldn't have wanted it,” he patted Robyn on the back as he passed her to get to the kitchen. Robyn sighed; sometimes it was too easy to forget that her dad had lost a brother, too.

“He wouldn't, yeah,” Robyn gave a small shrug of nonchalance, even as a tear brimmed in the corner of her left eye. She shook her shoulders violently, hoping the grief would just fly away, but it never did. “Need any more help?” she asked. Ever since the news her hands had been itching for any sort of distraction, whether that be weeding her parents’ garden or learning to play guitar again.

Unfortunately, her dad waved a hand dismissively. “Go home! You’re young and need to live your life!” he exclaimed. The box he held almost slid out of his arms in his enthusiasm, and Robyn’s mother entered the kitchen to scoff at her husband and take the box away.

“You say that every single time, dad.” Robyn pointed out. “Ah! That’s because I hope someday you will listen,” he replied with a wink.

“Don’t listen to your father,” her mother interrupted, “You take all the time you need, love. Nobody should tell you how to move on.”

“I know that too,” Robyn murmured. She kissed her parents on the cheek in farewell, then started to make her way to the front door, avoiding the boxes strewn throughout the house like domestic land mines.

“Oh! Just before you go…” her mother shouted. Robyn froze and huffed in annoyance as she lingered in the hallway, waiting for her mum to reappear. After some clattering and muttering, her mum reappeared and pushed the box of old sci-fi novels into her arms, and Robyn almost dropped them in surprise. “He wanted you to have them, apparently.” Her mum said fondly, patting Robyn’s cheek.

“I’ll take special care to enjoy them, then,” she muttered. She juggled the box in her hands and her parents’ car keys in the other to open the front door, but the hinges had been sticky for as long as she could remember, and it took great effort (with some swearing) to leave the house and close it behind her, the lock softly clicking as she did. The mid-afternoon sun stung her eyes in greeting and she shielded her face against the glaring light. Clambering into the old car, she glanced at her uncle’s house and took note of the white brick walls, climbing ivy, weather-speckled roof and down-trodden tulips before she fastened her seatbelt and reversed out of the driveway. The books sat on the passenger seat beside her, and Robyn couldn’t help but think that they were some sort of joke on her uncle’s part. He had always loved pranking her, and just about everyone in their family, much to everybody’s chagrin.

“You never changed,” she said to herself. Robyn gripped the steering wheel tightly as she left her uncle’s neighbourhood. “From the moment I was born you never changed.”

“I wish you were still here,” she continued, even as she left Orpington and headed for the M25 to take her back to London. “I have a feeling things are going to change a lot now.” The trees lining the motorway blurred into a green paint stroke as she accelerated. “And I don’t think for the better, either.”

* * *

 The sci-fi novels were shit. His old diary, by contrast, was rather good. Seeing her uncle’s scrawling handwriting gliding across the yellowed pages in shades of blue and black ink was more emotional then she had anticipated, so here and there were crinkled circles where her tears had splashed onto the paper. The stories told in the journal were fantastic and mysterious and peculiar, and Robyn wondered where he got his inspiration from. It was all rather Game of Thrones and Lord of the Rings-esque, she thought, which was probably why she couldn’t put it down.

The pages detailed the political manoeuvrings of nobility, dragon sightings, assassination attempts, armies of orc-like monsters blighting a whole country, invasions and sackings of cities. Always at the bottom of each page was the pen name ‘Judex’, and thrown into each passageway was a yearning for a doughnut, a hot shower, a flushing toilet or a toaster. At first glance Robyn had thought it an in-character diary, but upon seeing the length of the book she convinced herself it was a draft of a novel. She would’ve kept believing it too, if the narration wasn’t as scattered, incoherent or vague as it was. There was absolutely nothing tying the different entries together, save for the hastily scribbled date at the top of each page, and vital pieces of information were withheld even as she neared the end of the journal.

Who was the main character working for? Where were they working? Who is Judex?

For a week Robyn read the diary before she went to bed, and then she read it again and again and again. She read it on the Tube each morning as she commuted to work, she read it on her lunch breaks at the office and courtroom, and she even read it while eating her dinner. Weeks went past and it began to borderline on obsession. One day, her father dropped another box of her uncle’s stuff round to her flat in the City. It was labelled ‘ROBYN’, and inside were numerous photo albums. “Your mother and I have the others, with pictures from our childhood and all that crap,” her father said over a glass of wine. “Those ones-” he pointed to the box, “were of his travels. I’d bet they make for good viewing.”

An old-style projector sat on her low-lying coffee table (a relic from the ‘olden days’ her father had laughed, though it was younger than he was), all set up with a blank white wall ahead. Robyn offered for him to stay and watch the slideshow, but he politely declined, saying it was her gift, not his. He left soon after, with pleas from Robyn to drive safely and to text her when he arrived home. “I’m not an old geezer yet, love,” he had moaned, “I may have grey hair and wrinkles but I don’t have my stair lift.”

“Just wait another year or so, Dad, and you’ll be zooming up those stairs in no time.”

“You have quite the snarky mouth, don’t you? I knew I shouldn’t have let you go to law school,” he had admonished, but he bade her a fond goodbye either way, and she watched him drive away. Robyn, with no other thing to do, sank down onto her battered sofa and turned off the lights. Her uncle’s diary rested by a glass of vodka to see her through the night, along with a box of tissues. When the first blurred, heavily saturated image appeared on her wall with her uncle, red faced and beaming, Robyn almost burst like a dam. He looked so happy; behind him was a smooth, aquamarine sea, in one of his hands was an ice cream cone, and in the other a map. He had a full head of curly brown hair, and there weren’t so many wrinkles on his face, but it was the same cheeky smile. Robyn browsed through his holiday pictures for an hour before she came across something peculiar. It was dated October 1996, and he was wearing a loud Hawaiian shirt and cork hat while sipping an acidic pink cocktail. On one of his tanned cheeks was a scar, faint but still pale against his darker skin. It was rather jagged and long, and Robyn wondered what could have possibly caused it. In her long CSI marathons, she had seen a variety of scars; long, short, thin, deep, clean, jagged, but this one looked to be done by a knife, or a blade at least. She frowned, but she changed the picture anyway with a loud click. She had always known that her uncle had lots of scars, although she had never thought to how he could’ve gotten them, save for being a clumsy person.

A picture of him posing with a monkey on his head was next, and Robyn softly laughed to herself before skipping to the next one. In this photo he was standing in the sea with a rather comical, pained expression on his face, but on his chest was a new scar which stretched from his navel to just under his left pectoral. That definitely hadn’t been there in any of the other photos. Hurriedly, Robyn swiped the photo from under the projector and flipped it over in her fingers. August 23rd, 2006. Her eyes flickered to the journal by her glass. A peculiar feeling arose at the back of her mind, like she was at the top of a cliff and was about to dive off and plummet into the abyss. Tentatively, she reached over and picked the book up, then thumbed through the pages until she reached a 2006 entry.

_DRAKONIS, 9:30 DRAGON// MARCH 18TH 2006_

_THE BLIGHT HAS STARTED. THE ASSAULT AT OSTAGAR FAILED. KING CAILAN IS DEAD. ANORA IS RULING. LOGHAIN DECLARED HIMSELF REGENT. ARL EAMON IS STILL ILL. MY SERVICES ARE STILL REQUIRED YET MY CONTACTS ARE UNWILLING TO GO SOUTH. AS AM I, FOR THAT MATTER._

_T_ _HIS IS SERIOUS SHIT. DARKSPAWN ARE ATTACKING ON THE ROADS. THE BANNORN IS IN CHAOS. THERE ARE RUMOURS OF TWO GREY WARDENS WHO SURVIVED OSTAGAR, BUT I KNOW THE TRUTH. THEY DIDN’T SURVIVE ON A WHIM, THAT’S FOR CERTAIN. THE ORGANISATION IS CALLING ME BACK. I WILL PROBABLY BE IN QUARANTINE FOR A FEW WEEKS. A HURLOCK BLADE RIPPED ME FROM MY LEFT NIPPLE TO MY BELLY BUTTON, THE BASTARD. IT’S BEEN AN ABSOLUTE BITCH TO DISGUISE FROM EVERYONE ELSE, ESPECIALLY SINCE THE TAINT DOESN’T SEEM TO AFFECT ME. BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY, I SUPPOSE._

_I AM SAD TO LEAVE. FERELDAN COULD USE AN ~~HONEST~~ OTHER BLADE. I HEAR LOTHERING IS LOST. I HOPE LEANDRA AND THE KIDS GOT OUT, BUT I THINK THE NON-MAGE TWIN WAS AT OSTAGAR. I HOPE HE’S ALRIGHT- HE’S A GOOD LAD. NOW I’D BETTER GO DOWN FOR SOME STEW AND ALE, GOD KNOWS I NEED IT. _

_WHAT’S A GUY GOT TO DO TO GET SOME PAINKILLERS IN DENERIM?_

_-JUDEX_

That was… odd. Robyn’s heart beat erratically in her chest as she read the entry beneath it, but all that spoke of was the terrible stew and a lumpy straw mattress. The only possible explanation was that her uncle made up and wrote down fantastical stories about his scars, no matter how he got them, but this one seemed strangely specific. With a headache forming at the base of her skull, Robyn continued to look through the photos and forget about the whole scar business. She reached the end of the pile by the early hours of the morning, but there was one thinner, more crushed, more stained brown envelope at the bottom of the box. The night was strangely quiet for London; there were no sirens, no shouts, no cars whizzing past on the street below. There was only the ticking of the clock on the wall that rattled the inside of her ears. It read two o’clock.

Robyn took a deep breath. She put the stack of photos in the projector, just as her father showed her. Her hands were trembling. The first photograph flashed onto her wall in shades of murky green and muddy brown. Squinting, Robyn tried to make out the blurry shapes. It looked to be a rather primitive farm, with rickety fencing and a poorly-constructed wooden farmhouse, and was that a thatched roof? There were figures in the doorway, she noticed; one man with a rather spectacular black beard, his arm around an elegant woman with grey hair. There was another man who almost looked like a carbon copy of the elder, though he was noticeably youthful, and beside him was a shorter, younger woman with a huge dog beside her. Behind all of them was the tallest man, or rather a teenager, with a pale complexion and short, dark hair. None of them were looking at the camera, although the eldest man seemed to be waving at the cameraman. They all wore clothes which were neutral and looked to be roughly made, and both women were wearing long, simple dresses.  Fascinated, Robyn noted the date. _SOLACE, 9:28 DRAGON// JULY 19TH, 2004. HAWKE HOUSEHOLD, LOTHERING, PICTURED: MALCOLM HAWKE AND WIFE LEANDRA, CHILDREN GARRETT, BETHANY AND CARVER, AND THEIR DOG, STANLEY._

She didn’t know what to make of it. Checking the time again, she noticed that it was nearing half two and she rushed to turn the projector off and put the photos back in their envelope. Mind racing, she quickly brushed her teeth, took her make-up off, washed her glass and changed into her pyjamas. As she closed the curtains to her bedroom, she could've sworn that there was someone standing under a street light, looking at her window, but when she looked back they were gone. A horrible sense of dread rose in her stomach, and after she had clambered under her covers and settled into her pillow, she didn't fall asleep until dawn.

 

* * *

 “Dad? Are you there?”

“Yes! Why on Earth are you calling before midday? I thought your vampire tendencies were still prevalent after uni,”

“Ha ha, very funny,” Robyn switched the receiver of her phone to her left ear. She scanned the photo into her computer and began emailing it to her dad. “I was looking through the photos last night and there’s one I couldn't quite place,”

“What do you mean?” her dad asked from the other end of the line.

Robyn hit send. “Like, I could place the others: Greece, Italy, Spain, France and all that, but this one stumped me. Check your emails.” There was some muttering on the other end, but her dad complied and brought his emails up. There was silence for a few moments, where all she could hear was the crackling of the landline.

“Hm, that certainly is something. Can’t say I've ever seen it before.”

“You haven’t?” Robyn asked, disappointed.

“No. Can’t say I recognise the folks, either. Hang on, I’ll get your mum to take a look.” There was some shuffling and the faint shout of her dad calling for her mum, and then the phone was taken and her mother said hello.

“I'm sorry dear, I can’t seem to place them either. My only guess is that Paul took the photo while travelling, but you’re smart enough to know that too,” her mother sounded apologetic, and Robyn felt a twinge of guilt for that.

“Okay. Thanks anyway.”

“No worries. Love you, Robyn.”

“Love you too.”

Her dad took the phone again. “They might be Amish or something, Christ knows your uncle liked to pursue weird shit like that.” Robyn giggled.

“Yeah, I suppose he did. Probably the only reason why he liked you so much.”

“I can’t believe I have you as a daughter, Robyn,” her dad scoffed, “Anyway, your mother wants to go shopping today, so we’d best get going. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The line went dead as he hung up. Robyn let out a huff of frustration. She hated nothing more than a mystery she couldn't solve. Going through the other photos hadn't helped either; there were some of other farmhouses, some church-like buildings, and castles which were reminiscent of European Gothic counterparts, but none of them had a ‘normal’ name to go with them. They were labelled ‘Redcliffe’ or ‘Vigil’s Keep’ or ‘Highever’, and Robyn wondered if this fantasy life had ultimately consumed her uncle if he was so blind to reality. There was one lead, however, that she had scrawled on a piece of paper some place between consciousness and sleep. In one photograph was the smallest part of a profile of another man: Professor Harding. She had attended the university he lectured at, and she still recognised his bushy eyebrows and hooked nose even if she hadn't taken his course on politics. In that moment, Robyn decided to spend her Saturday in the idyllic city of Oxford.

* * *

 The street Harding lived down was as English as they came. The cobbled stones dug into her cheap trainers and hurt her feet, but the hedges of pink rhododendron and tall emerald-clad trees made up for that. Almost. Harding’s modest house was exceptionally pretty and well-kept, and Robyn had that sudden rush of aspiration for a house of her own like that one day. She grasped the delicate golden knocker of his door in her hand and gently tapped it against the wood. She clasped her hands behind her back and rolled onto her heels, waiting. The door opened with not even a creak and a smiling elderly lady greeted her. “Hello! Are you one of John’s students?” she asked brightly. The woman was wearing a floral print apron and flour dusted one of her cheeks. Robyn almost felt sick from the sweetness.

“Uh, not exactly, he was a friend of my uncle’s, and I, uh, wanted to speak to him about… him.” Robyn stuttered. _What a way to make an impression_.

“If you want to speak to him soon then you best go to the university, but you can wait if you wish,” said the woman.

“Um, I used to go there so I think they’ll let me in,” Robyn laughed nervously, “But thank you. Have a nice day.”

“You too, dear!”

Robyn almost sprinted down the perfectly stoned path. “Fuck,” she whispered to herself, once out of earshot. “You’re so bad at this it’s laughable.” The twittering of birds in the trees was no more soothing than the rush of the nearby Isis. Robyn made it to the end of the road and waited at the bus stop. She unzipped her rucksack to check that the photos, her purse and her phone were still there, then the red double-decker pulled up. She staggered onto the bus, exact change in hand, then waited to arrive at her old university.

It was quite surprising to be welcomed so warmly. Robyn required no guide as she wandered through the familiar corridors, and she made it to Harding’s office at a lazy pace. The grounds were filled with picnicking students and pigeons regularly dive-bombed from the sky to vacuum up crumbs and chips. The soft summer breeze ran through the swaying trees and the gentle rush of the river made for a calming atmosphere. Well, as calming as exam season could be. When Robyn found herself standing outside of the professor’s office, she took a deep breath and clenched her clammy hands. She knocked on the door. “Come in!” a cheerful voice cried. Robyn grasped the doorknob and turned, then opened the door a tad to peek in. Books, both academic and pleasure, were scattered across every available surface in the room. There was an overflowing paper bin in the corner, and numerous empty (and dirty) cups and saucers were perching precariously on the tables and bookshelves. “Sorry for the mess,” Harding said, “But I do feel it suits me.” Harding was a short man with a shock of white frizzy hair, a large nose, a tweed three-piece suit and rather intimidating eyebrows. “I don’t think you are one of my students, but I do recognise you,” he said to Robyn.

“Ah, yes,” she adjusted her rucksack on her shoulder then stepped forward, offering her hand to him. “Robyn Smith, I was a law student only a couple of years ago.”

“Of course!” he exclaimed, and he grabbed her hand with both of his and shook it vigorously. “Such a bright young woman! I do remember you!” when he let go of her hand he gestured for her to take a seat. “Tea? Coffee?”

“Uh, no thanks, not into hot drinks.” Robyn replied. She balanced her rucksack on her knee and hugged it protectively.

“Good, coffee is bad for your health you know,” he said, then poured himself a large cup of black coffee. Robyn smiled. “Now,” he said, taking a sip. He leaned back on his chair, “Is there something I can do for you?”

“Um, actually, it concerns my uncle, Paul Smith?”

“I remember Paul! Strange fellow, but a good drinking buddy,” Harding proclaimed. “I heard he had gone missing. I'm terribly sorry,”

“Thank you,” Robyn said quietly. It was always strange actually hearing it aloud. “I recently acquired a few of his personal items, and there was a strange set of pictures. One of them has you in it. Could you possibly tell me where it was taken?”

“Let’s have a look,” Harding unfolded his tortoiseshell glasses and put them on, making his eyes rather bug-like, but Robyn handed him the photo without a smile. “Ah, yes, I can’t quite remember.”

“You don’t remember?”

Harding shook his head quickly. “Ah, no. Sorry.”

“Nothing at all?” Robyn was grasping at straws here; she knew. Harding was adamant that he didn't know. Perhaps this had just been a huge waste of time and she was reading into something far too much. Her uncle was probably laughing in the afterlife; send Robyn on a wild goose chase from beyond the grave, and you will achieve ultimate uncle-ness.

“I'm terribly sorry, Robyn, but I don’t remember.” Harding took his glasses off and slipped them into his jacket’s inner pocket.

Robyn couldn't help but let disappointment seep into her speech. “No worries, professor. I was just curious,” she smiled and put the photo away, then stood up, ready to leave.

“Just before you go…” Harding began, and Robyn’s curiosity piqued once more. “Do you think you could walk an old man to the bus stop?”

“Of course,” Robyn replied, but she was confused. This ‘old’ man had walked to and from the bus stop every day for thirty years; was he scared he would get jumped by anxious students in the hallways? Either way, she waited as Harding packed his papers into his bag, and together they left his office and the building.

“Did you enjoy coming here?” he asked.

“Yes,” Robyn replied. They walked through the university entrance and made their way to the bus stop. “It was peaceful, but fast paced at the same time. It was deadly serious, but fun too.”

“I know what you mean,” Harding chuckled. They stood side-by-side as they waited. “And where do you work now?”

“In the City,” she answered, just as a bus pulled up to the curb, “At Allen & Overy. I've really only just started, though.” As they clambered onto the bus, flashed their passes and sat down, Harding let out a low whistle.

“Wow, you must be making big bucks, eh?”

Robyn blushed and looked away. “Not quite yet, but I hope to someday.” Robyn watched through the window as the university receded until it was gone from her sight. No matter how brief her visit was, the nostalgia that had settled in her bones was warm and she felt energised for the first time since her uncle went missing. The bus rumbled along the road as they left open green parks and countryside to meander down narrow city streets, but once the redness in her cheeks had calmed down and she looked back at Harding, she saw him looking around skittishly. “Is everything alright?” she asked.

“I can tell you where that picture was taken,” he murmured as he leaned closer, and Robyn’s eyes widened. She scrambled for a notebook and pen. “Allen & Overy? Well I’ll be damned!” he said loudly. Robyn looked at him expectantly.

“Yes, took a lot of hard work, but I got there,” she said slowly. She noticed that her hands were shaking slightly as they held her stripy Biro pen, which was almost making a hole in the paper because of her crushing grip. Harding looked around once more, eyes lingering on each passenger before speaking.

“That was taken at Sundermount, near Kirkwall,” he whispered.

“Kirkwall?”

“In the Free Marches,” he clarified, “Oh yes, I read somewhere that they were the third largest law firm in the United Kingdom…”

“We pride ourselves on that,” Robyn could play at this game too, even if this was a little frightening. “The Free Marches? Where’s…?”

“Thedas,” Harding whispered, “Impossible, yes, but I've seen it with my own two eyes.” Robyn looked at him, confused, pen frozen in her hand. Harding’s own were gripping the seat in front of him, and his knuckles were milk white. “Tell me…” he began, “Do you believe in other worlds?”

Speechless, Robyn couldn't answer before the bus halted. Perhaps this was more frightening than she had originally thought. “This is our stop,” said Harding, and he stood up and gathered his satchel in his arms. Robyn followed him off the bus, thanking the driver, and they walked up his picturesque road.

“I'm not sure…” Robyn’s voice sounded thick. “I had never thought too much about it.”

“You’d better start believing. Your uncle and I have seen lands people like Tolkien and George R.R. Martin dreamed about.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You don’t need to understand,” Harding snapped. He whirled around to face her, and his brown eyes were wild as they bore into her own. “What we've been taught is wrong. They say that God created the heavens and the earth on the first day, and now there’s been two billion. But what if we weren't His only creations? What if we had brothers and sisters and mothers and fathers in another universe?”

“I…” Robyn had never been so dumbfounded in her entire life. Another world? Surely he was pulling her leg!

“I know what you’re thinking,” Harding turned around once more, and he marched to his porch with determination in his step. “I speak the truth, Miss Smith, and for too long have I withheld my tongue.” He jammed his key in the lock and twisted so violently Robyn thought he’d broken his wrist. He stormed inside the house and Robyn lingered awkwardly on his front step, mouth still slightly agape, then suddenly the professor was pushing a book into her hands. “Take it,” he said hoarsely, “They will find you and try to use you, but you can’t give in. Do you understand?”

“Who?” Robyn hissed. She stuffed the book into her rucksack, trying to ignore to bile that was rising at the back of her throat.

“The people who control us. The bankers, the politicians, the police chiefs…” Harding’s eyes snapped from one of the street to the other, but Robyn could only see a cat scamper across the road. “We are lucky, Miss Smith, because these people have the power of Gods in Thedas. They are dangerous, for certain, but with them you can break the chains they have wrapped around the world that’s not even in our damn neighbourhood,”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Robyn asked, even as Harding backed into his house.

“Read,” he said plainly, then slammed the door in her face.

* * *

 Robyn drove home after checking her wing-mirrors no less than a hundred times on the motorway. She hurried from her car to her flat whilst clutching her bag, and when she got in she utilised every lock on her door and windows. Robyn then threw a ready-made meal into the microwave and tipped her bag on her kitchen table, sending pens, lipsticks, books and keys across the surface with a horrific clatter. Sinking down onto a chair, she reached over and plucked Harding’s book from under her purse. Its cover was in better than condition than her uncle’s, and there were fewer stains on the pages. There was much more writing too, and sometimes there was a tiny drawing under the entries. Robyn read while her dinner cooked and she found herself hanging onto every word written; whereas her uncle had been brief and factual, Harding had described exactly what he had felt the entire duration of his trips. He expressed sadness at discovering King Maric’s death, and he recounted having wept with joy when Ferelden was no longer trapped in Orlais’ crushing vice. As time went on, he described the increasing tyranny of the ‘Organisation’, as he called it, and was made to explore the complexity of his morals and be regularly forced to cross each new boundary he had established after each new trauma. Sadly, after a while, his entries were no longer dated.

_I feel like I've lost myself._

_I'd_ _always known, even after the things I had done, that there was a part of me that was still me. A part that was still human, a part that was still Jonathan Harding from Surrey._

_Now I'm not so sure. The Organisation takes everything; hopes, dreams, livelihoods, children, lives, and **we** are left to bear the weight of those prizes on our souls. _

_S_ _ometimes I think that we help, that we have Thedas’ best interests at heart, but most times I think it’s ego fuelling._

_When the gods no longer answer, do you force them into showing their hand?_

_Or do you become a god yourself?_

Robyn shivered. The microwave beeped, making her jump, and she leaped up to eat. As she scraped lasagne onto a clean plate, her mind wondered to that final, chilling statement. Did he mean the Gods of this world, or the Gods of Thedas, or maybe both? And what happened that made him so guilty?

When Robyn looked out her windows before she went to bed, there was no eerie figure standing under a lone street light, nor was the street completely silent as it had been the last night. Robyn still didn't fall asleep until late.

* * *

 The following day, Robyn sat in her car, holding her phone to her mouth. She slowly turned it over and over in her hands, contemplating her next move, before she huffed a sigh and selected her contacts.

“Louise? Yes, it’s me. I was just calling to check how you were doing. Really? That’s great news! Just now? Oh, I’m so happy for you! I just know you’ll love the city, especially since you’re going to such a prestigious school. No, really, I am! We've always been different, you and I, but that’s not bad. It’s great, actually, since mum and dad won’t pester you into following my path, or me into yours. Do you have to go? Maybe we’ll speak soon then. Love you. Bye.”

“Kirsty! How have you been? I know we haven’t spoken recently, but do you want to come round sometime? Reminisce about our youth, maybe? I know, I know, but I've known you for two decades, I'm not going to leave you now. Yeah? That’s great! Maybe that’s a date, then. See you!”

“Mum? Thinking about Paul has made me realise that I should say ‘I love you’ more. I'm not being melodramatic! Do you want me to say I love you or not, hm? Good. I love you, mum.”

“Some real crazy shit has happened, Dad. I'm feeling a little helpless at the moment. Please call me back when you have time. I love you.” Robyn wiped at her eyes until bright fireworks burst behind her eyelids. With a deep breath, she got out of her car and swung her bag over her shoulders, and scooped up the journal from her dashboard.

Mud squelched beneath her feet as she followed the directions to the hill Harding’s journal described. The map was basic and rather poorly drawn, but the written instructions clearly directed her to this forested area in Surrey, which wasn't too far from London. Robyn half expected Harding to appear, crazed with laughter, as TV cameras jumped out and filmed her flabbergasted reaction at being pranked spectacularly. The other half, however, expected to find something far worse. The wind was cold and bit at her face as she walked, but the low winter sun illuminated everything in its path. Being careful not to trip over roots packed into the earth, Robyn soon came across a clearing amongst the trees. It wasn't special in any way; there were just a few rocks here and there which rose up from the ground like mountains. Robyn exhaled, a little disappointed at the underwhelming scenery, and her breath clouded in front of her face and curled into the air like smoke.

She kicked a small rock and watched it roll down the grassy knoll, until it disappeared in the brown, spindly blades of grass. An inspection of the clearing ensued, and Robyn looked into every nook and cranny to find even a hint of truth to the mysterious journals.

_We were just boys when we found the clearing. It was rather dull, to be honest, but soon the air began rising, like it was losing density, and it began rippling. Suddenly, there was an explosion, or so we thought, of sickly green light that threw us backwards. As it shimmered and shifted, it looked like there was a rip in reality itself._

There was no explosion or tear in reality, Robyn concluded. She winced as she sat herself down onto a nearby rock and sighed, picking at the stitching in her jeans. All of this investigating was for nothing.

“You must feel very clever now, Miss Smith.” Robyn shrieked as a low voice spliced through the frigid air. Heart hammering and stomach rolling, Robyn turned to see a man standing beside a tree. Even as Robyn fought for breath, the man looked the epitome of calm with his neat hair, black suit and black overcoat. He stepped forward, shoes shining to perfection in the sunlight, and he lazily strode to her rock. Robyn gulped. Up close his grey eyes seemed depth-less. “Do you know who I am?” he asked.

“No,” Robyn replied, all hopes of him being an innocent dog walker dashed. “But I have an idea of who you work for.”

“We do not appreciate having our members reveal things they are not supposed to…” the man drawled in response. His calm veneer turned to calculating and menacing all in the space of three seconds. “… but we can make an exception, if you are willing to co-operate.” Slowly, he sat down next to her. Robyn’s body was as rigid as ice as she straightened her back. She could feel her lower lip trembling, her efforts to stop it with her teeth going unheard, and she could feel muscles burning in her legs when she clenched them tightly.

“It depends on the terms,” Robyn said, and she was pleasantly surprised that her voice remained even and strong, as compared to the inner turmoil collecting in her stomach. The man chuckled, though she still refused to look at him.

“We've been watching you for some time, Miss Smith. We’d be honoured for you to join our ranks.”

“Never,” she said hoarsely, “I've read what you've done. I want nothing to do with it.”

The man sighed, almost in disappointment, but he didn't sound surprised. Robyn swallowed thickly, then suddenly the sun was blocked by his broad shoulders and cold metal was pressing against her clammy forehead and she almost screamed again. “Tell me again, I didn't quite catch that,” he sounded gleeful as he taunted her, but all Robyn could see was the impeccable stitching of his coat and the shiny buttons glinting.

“I said no,” she repeated, teeth clenched together, and Robyn felt she was going to faint at any moment. There was click as the safety of the gun was switched off, and Robyn barely held in her vomit.

“Tell. Me. Again.” Robyn was now shaking like she had been dunked into the freezing English Channel. Did she really want to die like this? A strange, well-dressed man pressing the barrel of a gun to her head on a miserable Sunday morning in the middle of nowhere? The man crouched down so they were at eye level. From here, she could see the fine lines that ringed his eyes and mouth, and a faint scar running through his left eyebrow. His upper lip was raised in a sneer and Robyn felt a tear leak out of her eye. He reached up, agonisingly slowly, and wiped it away with the cold, calloused pad of his thumb.

“People are not toys,” Robyn declared. The man gave a sad smile.

“I agree,” he murmured, standing up again. The gun was pressed harder into her forehead. “I like to think of it as a story. Things will always get worse before they get better,”

“I don’t believe in God, but I'm almost certain he wouldn't be like you,” Robyn spit. Her fingers were growing increasingly numb as she gripped Harding’s journal tightly.

“When the Gods no longer answer, do you force them into showing their hand?” the man asked. Robyn choked on her breath. “Yes, the words of your friend. He is usually wise with these matters, and probably the most eloquent, but he left our service a long time ago. His watch ended,”

“What, do you think you’re the Lord Commander of the Night’s Watch now?” Robyn retorted.

“No,” the man said, still smirking. “I'm a messenger of the Maker,”

He pulled the trigger. Robyn only had time to flinch before she realised what was happening. Afterwards, when there was no bright tunnel of light or chorusing angels, she sobbed until the man came into focus, smiling, and it was then she noticed his chipped canine in his wide mouth. “Congratulations, you passed the first test, Miss Smith.”

Test? Before Robyn could even think coherently, he yanked her skywards and the world began to spin. He steadied her with his cold hands, gun loosely hanging from a finger. “You may be wondering, ‘why me? I just told the guy that I’d rather die than help him’,” the man started, and he dragged her along to the centre of the clearing. “But that’s what we need. Grit-” he pushed her away from him and Robyn stumbled on the muddy ground before she caught her footing.

“Determination,” he tossed a black drawstring bag at her, and Robyn caught it with numb hands.

“And perseverance,” he finished, a sardonic smile stretching across his face, and he raised his hand in the air, exposing his silver cuff links, and held a single finger aloft. With her mouth still dry from her near-death experience, Robyn couldn't even tell the man to stop. Stop, because he’s scaring her. Stop, because she doesn't know what’s happening.

Stop, because she knows exactly what’s happening.

Stop, because she doesn't want to leave.

The air began to rise, like it was losing density. Then, it began to ripple, and the man’s face became distorted. The explosion followed, and a scream caught in her throat as the air started fizzing. The heavens tore above her, and she almost wished to be plucked from the face of the earth by God or whoever was up there, but there was only silence, even as she shouted for them to hear her. The green light engulfed her and it clawed at her skin. It was _greedy_ , Robyn thought, even when the ground melted beneath her feet and vanished.

Then, the fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My absolute guilty pleasure is reading girl-falls-into-Thedas, girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth, girl-falls-into-Westeros type fics, but I wanted to explore the possibility of two worlds being intertwined without one being fictional. This train wreck is the result of that weird conscious stream of ideas one gets at 2am.


	2. wonder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: this chapter includes swearing and some kinda graphic gore

_BLOOMINGTIDE, 9:20 DRAGON// MAY 29TH 1996_

_IT’S A STRANGE FEELING, BEING SPIT FROM A RIFT. MOST TIMES YOU END UP IN DARKTOWN, AND THE STINK OF SHIT AND BLOOD AND SULFUR IS THE FIRST THING YOU NOTICE. IF YOU’RE LUCKY, YOU END UP IN THE ARBOR WILDS, WHERE THE ONLY THING YOU HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT IS THE OCCASIONAL GIANT._

_IT’S LIKE GETTING OFF A REALLY, REALLY HIGH AND FAST AND LOOPY ROLLERCOASTER, WHERE THE GROUND DOESN’T SEEM REAL ANYMORE WHEN YOU GET OFF. THE NAUSEA SETS IN AFTER, AND WHEN YOU TAKE DEEP BREATHS THE AIR STICKS IN YOUR LUNGS BECAUSE OF THE GREATER OXYGEN CONCENTRATION._

_YOU REACH OUT TO TOUCH SOMETHING. IF YOU CAN FEEL IT, THEN THE TRIP WAS SUCCESFUL. IF YOU CAN’T, SOMETHING WENT VERY WRONG ALONG THE WAY._

_SOMETIMES I FEAR WAKING UP IN THEDAS AND I CAN’T FEEL THE BREEZE._

_SOMETIMES I FEAR WAKING BACK HOME, NOT ABLE TO FEEL ANYTHING AT ALL._

_-JUDEX_

* * *

 

It felt like the very atoms that made up the world were being stripped away, one by one. They peeled back, tugging uncomfortably, until the green light rolled in. It was neither warm nor cold, smooth nor rough; it was just _there_. Suddenly, Robyn couldn’t feel her own skin anymore.

There was no pressure to press her through time; she could move backwards and forwards and upwards and downwards through the fluidity of space. It was no longer linear, where her path was laid out before her in a straight line, where all she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Here, Robyn knew that her body had been taken out of the third dimension and tossed through space and time like a ragdoll. Consciousness was hanging to her physical being by a mere thread, and Robyn suspected that she was hurtling towards a singularity.

Then, the green ceased to surround her. There was nothing. Her speed increased, but she had no way of telling when she couldn’t feel wind rush past her face nor see her surroundings blur. Time didn’t exist. Space didn’t exist. Feeling didn’t exist. For a fleeting moment or for an eternity, Robyn Smith didn’t exist.

A wave of energy crashed over her when she reached the singularity. She wasn’t crushed like a Coke can, she surmised, and she didn’t disappear entirely, she thought. Did she really reach the singularity? Did it even exist? Was _she_ the singularity?

Perhaps millions of years passed while she tore through the fabric of reality. Perhaps her parents had lived and died without ever seeing her again. Perhaps Louise had graduated, and perhaps Kirsty had married her boyfriend. Perhaps London didn’t exist anymore. Perhaps humankind had gone extinct. Perhaps the Earth had been scorched by the dying Sun, and the Milky Way Galaxy was seventy-five million biomass tons lighter.

Before Robyn could contemplate any further, glaring white light swiftly flared around her numb body, fingers of brightness caressed her skin, and she snapped her eyes shut. Space shifted, pulling at the seams of her mind, then the breath was knocked out of her lungs when she fell from the sky.

_The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it._

Robyn opened her eyes.

_White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise._

Except there weren’t any white shores or a ‘far green country’. There were lots of dead, ruddy brown leaves, a thick layer of mud, and the unmistakable smell of rain in the air. Robyn’s fingers twitched. They skimmed across the ground, collecting cool dew as they went, and she smiled.

The trip had been successful.

Other than that pleasant recollection, Robyn realised she was truly and utterly fucked. She had just travelled across the _universe_ for crying out loud. Having been cast down by God’s fury on some sopping wet grass, she sat up, feeling the numbness dissipate from her body. Her uncle was right; when she breathed in deeply, her lungs inflated and deflated like water balloons. That was going to get some getting used to.

Maybe she was still on Earth, and this had been a very elaborate Prank’d episode. Robyn shook out the pins and needles in her feet and stood up, almost careening head first into a bush on her shaky legs. Surprisingly, she didn’t feel too different, as she half expected to fade back into the essence of time due to her alien status. That was a positive.

The negative, however, was the fact that she had no idea where she was. Her uncle’s journals spoke of Kirkwall, the Arbor Wilds, the Brecilian Forest and the Hinterlands as having ‘portals’ which the ‘organisation’ used to leap between Earth and Thedas. If she played along with this whole idea, her best bet was to make her way out of this forest and to a city where she could contact someone to say that there had been a mistake, and that she needed to go home.

Robyn thought it was a good plan too, until she turned around and promptly vomited into some nearby vegetation. Wiping her mouth, Robyn sank down with her back to a tree stump. The bark scratched into her back and her burning mouth tasted foul, but it was probably best that she acclimatised herself before even attempting what was to be a long, arduous hike.

The sun looked no different, Robyn concluded, and neither did the sky. Squirrels scampered down the trunks of trees and birds twittered amongst themselves in the leaves above her, so the scene looked and felt and heard and smelled no different than to what she was used to. Once she had collected her thoughts and settled her stomach, she placed the black drawstring bag in her lap. It was made of a rough material, so was obviously meant to blend in, and was rather heavy. Robyn wondered if this ‘plan’ had been in motion for longer than she had originally thought.

Robyn dipped her fingers into the top and slowly pulled the bag open with baited breath. She peered inside, seeing a set of clothes neatly bundled into the bottom. She drew them out and laid out the tunic, leggings, cloak and leather belt onto the grass before her. The tunic was cream coloured and simply made, with a corset-like tying system by the collar, and she sniggered despite her predicament, as it reminded her of the recent trends in Topshop back home. The leggings were nothing special, though Robyn suspected that they would be very itchy, and the cloak was made of a heavy navy material which she couldn’t name. Inside the bag was another journal, similar to the ones she had so meticulously studied over the previous weeks, with a set of pens and pencils. A wind-up torch also went into the pile growing on the grass, as did a portable solar charger for her phone, a Swiss army knife, some gold, silver and bronze coins, soap, underwear, a handkerchief, a toothbrush and toothpaste, a comb, a map, and other miscellaneous items.

After some deliberation, Robyn decided to change into the clothes provided. If she was trampling through the undergrowth in her jeans and bomber jacket, she was going to ruin them one way or another. As expected, the leggings itched around her shins and the cloak felt heavy draping from her neck. Her white tennis shoes were also bound to become stained, so she rummaged in the bag and found a pair of plain leather boots, which were stiff around her feet. Robyn stuffed her smaller rucksack into the black bag and adjusted the straps over her shoulders, then cracked her neck.

She had a shit ton of walking to do.

With no particular direction in mind, Robyn sipped some of the water from her rucksack and set off, actually grateful for the tree cover that shielded her face from the sun. Her boots sank slightly in the mud, and leaves were crushed underfoot whilst she hiked to lower ground. A breeze whistled through the trees and ruffled the bounteous leaves, and Robyn thought that it was actually quite enjoyable. Ever the strategist, she formulated a plan in her head while she walked:

Step 1. Find other people. This would probably be the hardest to achieve, since there seemed to be nothing but trees and hills and rams about. There was no signal on her mobile, so Robyn thought that her best chance of returning home would be to use someone else’s landline to call her parents, or even the police.

Step 2. Find some way of surviving. Whether she spent the night at a kind stranger’s house or under the stars, Robyn knew that she had to keep herself hydrated, fed, sheltered and rested until she could go home. Her water was beginning to deplete once she had walked for an hour or so, especially since she wasn’t used to long periods of walking and sweated like a pig. Food was also going to become an issue; all she had were some Tic Tacs, a packet of Quavers, some Starburst and a pack of gum in her bag. Robyn wasn’t keen on drinking hard water or eating plants out in the wilderness, so she hoped her supplies would last long enough until she had more security.

After another hour, Robyn leaned against a tree, clutching at her side where a painful, stabbing stitch had formed. Fortunately, she regained her breath quickly and was off again within a matter of minutes. Robyn trudged down a well-trampled dirt road which rounded a small hill in the middle of the valley, and by this point the hot midday sun beat down on her face uncomfortably. “Maybe there’s more oxygen in the air,” Robyn said to herself, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension they held. Without any warning, a voice cleaved through the dead silence.

“Maybe there’s more what?” Robyn swore she jumped three feet in the air, and she nearly vomited from shock again. A figure dressed in poorly-fitting armour vaulted over a nearby rock, a huge wooden longbow notched with an arrow in their hands. Robyn’s own slapped her chest, and the quick, erratic beating of her heart pulsed through layers of skin and cloth. They wore a rusty helmet, effectively making them faceless, but their voice was unmistakably low, gravelly and masculine. The arrowhead pointed straight between her eyes.

“Oxygen,” Robyn repeated, ever so slowly. It was amusing to think how one near-death experience made her almost unflinching now.

“What’s that?” the man asked, stepping forward.

“It’s what we breathe,” Robyn clarified. She raised her hands, showing that she held no weapons, and she hoped to God or the Maker or whoever or whatever that was up there would help her walk away unharmed. The man exhaled quickly in an amused manner. He lowered his bow.

“You’re a funny one, you know that?”

“Yeah, unfortunately,” Robyn sighed in relief. She lowered her hands. The man cocked his head to the side, like he was studying her intently.

“Right, give us your bag and you can me on your way,” he said lazily. Us? Was there more of him? Robyn’s eyes flickered to the side, where she saw the tip of another bow peek out over a rock. She swallowed thickly.

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” she told the man. She couldn’t let anyone see her phone or clothes or shoes or lip-gloss, what would they think?

The man clucked his tongue, disappointed, but then pursed his lips together and whistled a high, clear note. More armoured clones appeared from behind rocks and trees and banks of dirt. When Robyn looked at the leader again, she counted no less than eight arrows aimed directly at her. “I have nothing of value,” she argued. She shifted her weight from foot to foot, hoping to distract herself from the nausea rising in her stomach. The man tutted, shaking his head. Robyn saw that he had a shaggy blonde beard under the hunk of metal nestled on his head.

“Everything has a value, missy, just some more than others,” he countered. He raised his bow again and Robyn could see the tension growing in the string. With just a small, insignificant movement of his fingers, that tension would snap and send an arrow into her eye socket faster than you could say ‘fuck you and your scraggly beard’.

Robyn’s fingers clenched around the strap of her bag. Would she give them the bag, regain her freedom, but potentially jeopardise her cover?

Would she keep the bag and get killed for it, effectively blowing her cover either way?

Would she hand the bag over but die anyway at their hands?

Was this another test?

Before she could even swing the bag from her shoulders, something whistled and whizzed past her ear. Robyn blinked, and then she saw a feathered arrow sticking out of the man’s eye and blood squirted through the slit in his helmet. Robyn, absolutely horrified, vomited her lunch of Tic Tacs and Quavers onto the ground. Soon there was shouting and screaming and grunting and sobbing, but it all seemed distant as she crouched on the ground and covered her eyes.

_This cannot be happening._

When her fingers finally pried themselves apart, the motionless corpse of the archer lay only mere metres from her, viscous blood still oozing from its eye and dripping onto the dirt. The other eye was wide open, unseeing. Robyn threw up again. Someone was speaking nearby, she realised, and she turned to see another person draw a knife across the throat of an unconscious archer. An arc of dark red blood poured out of the opening and pooled beside the body. Robyn would’ve thrown up again too, if she had anything left in her stomach other than acid, so instead her skull started to pound.

“Are you alright, Miss?” This voice was female. It was soft, slightly accented like a farmer, and lilted in her ears.

“Uh, yes, just… not used to seeing that,” Robyn’s tongue felt thick in her mouth as she spoke.

“Those bandits have been causing a lot of trouble lately, what with all the mages and Templars running around. You need any help?” The pounding in Robyn’s head didn’t subside as she looked up. The woman had a green scarf wrapped around her head with an odd looking cloth helmet underneath. There were hard lines on her face and her teeth were yellowed, but she looked friendly enough. Robyn thought she could use a friend.

“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost…” Robyn began. The woman offered a gloved hand, which she took, then she was hauled up with surprising strength.

“The Crossroads are not too far from here, milady. As it happens, we were just heading there to check in with Corporal Vale. You’re welcome to join us,”

“Thank-you,” Robyn accepted. The woman’s bright smile almost distracted her from the rusty, metallic stench of blood that crept up her nostrils. Another soldier handed her a waterskin which she accepted quickly, and the lukewarm water that ran across her tongue and down her throat felt like the tears of Jesus.

“The name’s Edna, but most call me Eddie,” Robyn’s saviour told her.

“Nice to meet you. I’m Robyn.”

Eddie nodded and adjusted her cloth helmet/contraption/thing. “The Crossroads are this way, Robyn. Might I ask where you were heading?” Robyn’s stomach dropped to her feet once more. She was definitely out of her element here; she was built to be a lawyer, not a bloody MI5 spy.

“Uh, nowhere in particular…” her mind quickly cast back to the journals and Eddie’s warning of mages and Templars. “I was just trying to get away from all the fighting,”

Eddie nodded solemnly. “Of course, it’s been absolute chaos around here. There’re main camps for both mages and Templars, but with such few numbers the Inquisition hasn’t found them yet,”

Robyn adjusted her bag’s straps once more. Her back was _really_ aching now. “Inquisition? Is that a new group?”

“Ever since the Herald emerged from the Fade, blessed by Andraste herself, Seeker Pentaghast has reformed the Inquisition of old to restore order to the world,” Eddie recounted dreamily, and she puffed out her chest proudly. “Even though most of us are just farmers or fishermen, we don’t want to see our home destroyed,”

Robyn gave a small smile. She looked around at Eddie’s comrades, and she saw that most of them were younger than she thought, perhaps only being a year or two younger than herself. Baby fat still clung to the cheekbones of a few, and there was the occasional pimple sprouted on a chin or forehead. “The rifts haven’t made anything easier, either,” Eddie sighed. Clouds drifted over the sun and everything turned cooler whilst the group trekked. “They open up without warning, and demons spill out of them. We can kill as many of the buggers as we can, but the rift still remains. Hopefully the Herald will be able to close them fo’ good this time,”

Being careful not to blow her cover, Robyn pursed her lips and stayed silent, no matter how much she wanted to know who this ‘Herald’ was. The sun was gradually sinking lower in the cornflower blue sky, and her feet were hurting like hell. The only thing that sustained her was the promise of finding new people, a way to contact someone for help, and for a path back to London to be opened up. Robyn shook out her shoulders once again, hoping that the ‘Crossroads’ weren’t too far. After another couple hours of hiking, and when her stomach began to growl loudly (much to her embarrassment), they reached their destination.

It was rather pretty, Robyn thought, and she sighed in relief once she spotted smoke rising from fires. Eddie directed her to one of them to get some food and Robyn thanked her once more. She walked past a pond dotted with lily pads and reeds, and a merchant called out to her to purchase his wares, but she’d had enough experience with ‘chuggers’ in London to politely decline. The scent of cooking meat made her mouth water and Robyn subconsciously quickened her pace, bounding up stone steps two at a time. Once she crested the top, Robyn was sure that her face was tomato-red from exertion, but she was so hungry that she couldn’t care less. A man dressed in furs handed her a small bowl of stew and a wooden spoon. Warmth radiated from the dish and Robyn inhaled deeply, letting the delicious smell surround her, before she dipped her spoon in and shoved the food into her mouth.

Although Robyn hated not knowing what the meat was or how it had been cooked or how clean the spoon and bowl were, those concerns were quickly pushed to the back of her mind once she realised she couldn’t stop wolfing it down. Within a matter of moments, the stew was completely gone, and she licked the spoon and her lips to catch the last remnants. When she noticed that the man was softly chuckling behind her, Robyn saw that she hadn’t even sat down before absolutely ravishing her meal. Robyn blushed and handed the bowl and spoon to an elderly woman who was washing dishes. She sat down on a nearby log very slowly, as her legs and lower back and feet had never hurt so much in her entire life. Her muscles seized up and her joins cracked, making her wince. She settled her bag in between her feet. Another oddly-clothed ‘Inquisition’ soldier approached the fire, looking around nervously.

“Miss Robyn?” they asked.

“Yes?” Robyn answered slowly.

“There’s been a message for you,”

“A message?”

The soldier stepped forward and handed her a rolled up piece of parchment, which was sealed by black wax, and once it was in her palms the runner bolted like a wild colt. Uncaring, Robyn apprehensively broke the seal and unrolled the thick, pulpy message. Unusually, the text was written in very uniform, very blocky capital letters, like it had been printed by a computer. Puzzled, Robyn leaned closer to the fire so she could read in its orange light.

_MISS SMITH,_

_WE WELCOME YOU TO THEDAS. OR, MORE SPECIFICALLY, THE HINTERLANDS IN FERELDEN._

_YOU ARE THE FIRST OPERATIVE TO BE SENT TO THE AREA IN LITTLE OVER A YEAR. AS YOU CAN PROBABLY SEE, THE MAGES AND TEMPLARS HAVE ALMOST DESTROYED THE FOREST, BUT WHO’S TO SAY THAT’S A BAD THING?_

_YOU MAY STILL BE IN DENIAL OVER YOUR PREDICAMENT. WE WILL SAY THIS ONCE, JUST TO EASE YOUR DOUBTS, AND THEN YOU WILL BE EXPECTED TO FULFILL YOUR WATCH._

_YOU ARE NOT ON EARTH ANY LONGER._

_YES, YOU HAVE TRAVELLED ACROSS THE UNIVERSE TO ANOTHER LIFE-SUSTAINING PLANET._

_NO, YOU ARE NOT CRAZY, NOR ARE YOU ON A TELEVISION SHOW._

_YOU WILL SEE DEATH. YOU WILL SEE DISEASE. YOU WILL WATCH LOVED ONES DIE._

_OUR ADVICE: DO NOT BECOME TOO ATTACHED. YOU WILL BE A PART OF A NETWORK OF INFORMATION NEITHER OF OUR WORLDS CAN COMPREHEND._

_YOUR CONTACTS WILL REACH OUT TO YOU WHEN WE GIVE THE WORD. NO, YOU ARE NOT ALONE IN YOUR MISSION._

_OUR ADVICE: DO NOT SEEK THEM OUT UNLESS WE SAY SO._

_YOUR WATCH IS AS FOLLOWS:_

_1\. JOIN THE INQUISITION._

_THIS CAN BE DONE IN ANY WAY YOU SEE FIT, WE ONLY ASK THAT YOU BE DISCREET._

_2\. MONITOR THE INQUISITION._

_THIS IS THE FIRST TIME IN THOUSANDS OF YEARS THAT THE FATE OF THEDAS IS OUT OF OUR CONTROL. WE EXPECT YOU TO UPDATE US ON THE GROUP’S DECISIONS AND AMOUNT OF POWER THEY POSSESS._

_3\. INFLUENCE THE INQUISITION. GAIN THE TRUST OF ITS COMMAND. IT IS STILL ONLY A FLEDGELING ORGANISATION. UTILISE YOUR PERSUASIVE AND INTUITIVE TALENTS TO THE MAXIMUM. WE WILL GUIDE YOU ON THIS THROUGH MESSAGES._

_REMEMBER: STAY UNDERCOVER. IF IT IS BLOWN, YOU WILL JEOPARDISE OUR MISSION. IF YOU FAIL YOUR WATCH, YOU CANNOT RETURN HOME._

_WE HAVE TOLD YOUR FRIENDS, FAMILY AND WORK THAT THE GOVERNMENT HAS ASKED YOU TO INVESTIGATE CORRUPT COURTS ABROAD. WE HAVE TOLD THEM THE ONLY WAY TO CONTACT YOU SAFELY IS THROUGH US. IF YOU SUCCEED AT VARIOUS POINTS IN YOUR WATCH, WE WILL GIVE YOU THESE MESSAGES._

_YOUR LOVED ONES WILL REMAINED UNHARMED ON EARTH, YOU HAVE OUR WORD._

_DO WE HAVE YOURS?_

_DO WE HAVE YOUR WORD THAT YOU WILL INFLUENCE THEDAS THROUGH YOUR ACTIONS, TO HOW WE SEE FIT?_

_WRITE YOUR REPLY WITH THE PARCHMENT PROVIDED. TAKE YOUR MESSAGE TO OUR CONTACT, WHO SHOULD BE WAITING BY THE ARMOUR MERCHANT’S STALL. THEY WILL HAVE A SEAL AND WAX FOR YOU TO USE._

_WE LOOK FORWARD TO HEARING FROM YOU._

_KIND REGARDS,_

_-ARTIFEX_

Well, shit.

Robyn rubbed a hand over her face, staring at the fire. Her uncle was right; now she felt numb. Maybe the trip had been unsuccessful after all. Somehow, her hands found themselves grasping the fabric of the bag between her feet. It held the only things left tying her to Earth. By now the sky was an inky black, and sparkling stars dusted the heavens like spilt craft glitter. They were much brighter here, Robyn noticed, and there were thousands upon thousands of them. Robyn turned her head, wanting to see how far the belt of light stretched around her, and very nearly fainted with shock.

There were _two_ moons.

One of them was absolutely  _humongous_.

Robyn sank to the dirt floor, hugging the bag to her chest, and took a deep, shaky breath. The biggest moon looked like it was going to swallow her up. If she just reached out and elongated her fingers, she was certain she would be able to touch its craters. Her eyes glistened, because even though the stars and moons were so alien and unfamiliar, they were undeniably beautiful, too. It just further confirmed that she was living in an absolute nightmare.

From the corner of her vision, she saw Eddie approach the fire. She wasn’t wearing her helmet, and her hair was greasy and unkempt. “Robyn,” Eddie greeted. She sat down on the opposite log and groaned.

Robyn cleared her throat quietly, but her voice still came out shaky and soft. “Long day?”

“Every day is long now,” Eddie lamented. Robyn’s eyes dropped to her fingers, which were still fiddling with the drawstring bag. The fire crackled pleasantly whilst the two sat in silence. After a while, Eddie spoke up once more. “There is an unused tent by the pond, if you’re in need of rest,”

“Thank-you,” Robyn nodded, “But I think I’ll stay out here for a while. Someone else who needs it more can use it,”

Eddie looked rather surprised, but smiled happily. “You know...” the older woman started, and Robyn looked up to listen. Eddie’s face held a wistful sense of nostalgia, and she suddenly looked much older, like the weight of the world was pressing down on her shoulders. “Ever since the Blight took my parents and brother, it seemed like the world was slowly ending…”

Eddie looked up at the moon with wet eyes. “Everything slowly got better after the Hero and the king slayed the Archdemon. Ferelden recovered. When the war started, it looked like we were going to lose everything all over again. Then the Conclave exploded and the Breach opened, and we thought that the Maker was punishing us once more for our sins.”

Robyn barely suppressed a shiver when the god was mentioned. She wanted to tell Eddie that the Maker was just a lie created to manipulate Thedas and all its history, yet she didn’t have the heart. She was still too afraid of the consequences.

“But the Herald has given us hope! She survived the Conclave and stabilised the Breach, and just only yesterday did she clear the way for the Crossroads! We all owe everything to her and the Inquisition!” Eddie exclaimed passionately. When the amber glow danced across her weathered features, Robyn saw that the weight was slowly lifting, yet her sympathy for the woman and all those refugees around her just amplified even more.

“She sounds like a good woman,” Robyn murmured.

“Aye, we need more people like her in this world,” Eddie agreed.

 _And in mine_ , Robyn thought silently to herself. Eddie yawned loudly, then stretched her arms above her head.

“I think I’m going to head off to bed, it’s been a long week,” Eddie stood from the log, stretching again.

“Goodnight,” Robyn called to her.

“Goodnight, Robyn,” Eddie gave another bright smile, which seemed entirely out of place amongst all the doom and gloom, but Robyn couldn’t help but smile back. Funnily enough, Robyn felt a renewed sense of energy about her. Although it hadn’t quite sunk in that she was in another world, and very much stuck in said world, Robyn felt as though she could do this. She could help these people, and she could make their lives better. The problem was keeping in the good books of the ‘organisation’. She could, of course, just lie, but if there were other operatives in Thedas that would soon be blown out of the water. Whatever path she decided to take, Robyn knew that the only way to get home and return to her family would be to join the group. Defeated, Robyn scooped up the black bag and left the fire and all its warmth, and started the search for the armour merchant’s stall.

He had packed up his wares long ago, but a lone stranger sat down on the grass, sharpening a wicked looking dagger. Robyn cleared her throat and tightened her grip on the bag. The figure looked up, although their face was still obscured in the darkness. “There is a candle on the merchant’s table,” they said in a disinterested manner. Robyn observed that their accent was American, no matter how much they tried to sound English. She also wondered if they had to do this a lot with new recruits, though she couldn’t imagine the ‘organisation’ being flooded with job applications.

The lit tallow candle guided her trembling hand whilst she wrote, and the thick smell of burning fat made her gag. Her handwriting was scratchy and the page was splattered with ink, but her acceptance was just about eligible, so she handed the rolled up letter to her contact once the ink had dried. They melted some black wax over the candle and dropped a blob of it over the end of the message, smoothed it out, then waited for it to dry. There was no seal declaring who the sender was.

“We hope you considered your reply carefully, Miss Smith,” said the operative. They slipped the letter inside their coat. “If you accepted, we will contact you with your new operative name and more detailed instructions for the first part of your watch.”

There was some indistinct chatter floating up the dirt road, and when the figure turned their head Robyn saw the moonlight glint off their eyes. Another Inquisition soldier and what looked to be a strange nun passed them by. “Maker be with you, Miss Smith,” the contact said in an ominous farewell, still watching the two Thedosians walk away.

“Maker be with you,” Robyn replied warily. With that, the contact quickly vanished into the night. A strange sense of foreboding washed over her, but she decided to retire back to the fire and sleep all the tension off.

When she laid her bag on the floor as a pillow and accepted a thin blanket from another weird nun, Robyn rolled onto her back and studied the double moons above her, which shone brighter than the one back home. Sighing, Robyn’s eyes fluttered shut, and for the first time in what seemed like years, she fell into a deep sleep instantly.

* * *

 

The next morning brought about neck cramps, backache, excruciating thirst, unbearable hunger, and a desperation for the toilet. The sun had only just started to rise when Robyn awoke, yet most of the settlement were already readying themselves for the day. Sleep had crusted around her eyes and Robyn wiped them away with dirty hands. There was a foul taste in her mouth and Robyn remembered that she’d forgotten to brush her teeth the previous night.

This was going to be a long, long day.

She brushed the dirt from her clothes and asked around to find a place where she could take care of ‘business’. The soldiers pointed her to some ditches just outside the main camp, and when the stench of urine and faeces swallowed her up Robyn very nearly vomited. Closing her eyes and holding her breath, Robyn loosened the ties to her legging and squatted.

This was the absolute pinnacle of her life.

When she was finished, Robyn poured some water and soap on her hands to wash them; she absolutely _refused_ to contract any diseases. The sun was now hanging lowly in the blue sky, but her eyes still burned and watered in its brightness. She felt like she had a hangover. A change of underwear followed, and Robyn balled up her dirty knickers and shoved them to the bottom of her bag, hoping to the gods that she could find a river to wash them in.

Back at the Crossroads, women were dishing out bowls of porridge that looked exactly like wallpaper paste and hard chunks of bread, but Robyn threw all caution to the wind and ate a bowl. Children with mud-streaked faces and ratty clothing shrieked and laughed as they played, and the atmosphere at camp was warm and friendly, but Robyn knew she couldn’t stay. Her mission was with the Inquisition, wherever in Thedas that was stationed. Robyn then searched the camp for Eddie; she was the only person she could count as being trustworthy, and she was kind to a fault. Eddie looked sad when Robyn told her she would be leaving, but gave her the information she required nonetheless.

“The Herald took care of the Templars just late last night, so I’d wager they headed out with a small party to locate the apostate mages in the Witchwood.”

Robyn thanked Eddie for all her help and bade her a teary goodbye. Following Eddie’s directions, Robyn left the Crossroads and struck out into the woods on her own, praying to every deity in existence that she wouldn’t come across renegade Templars, apostate mages or bloodthirsty bandits.

* * *

 

Every tree started to look the same after a while. The pleasant breeze of the previous day had evolved into a sharp, biting wind that stung at Robyn’s cheeks. The Hinterlands were a place of many, many hills, and her feet and calves were beginning to cramp really badly. Robyn recalled to mind every survival tip she’d been given; there was the importance of food and water rationing, the need for shelter, the need for dry wood to start a fire, and…

That was about it.

She was _so_ fucked.

Robyn started to become extremely frustrated, and she seriously pondered whether to return back the way she came with her tail between her legs. With each passing hour, the prospect became more and more appealing. Just as Robyn started to completely lose her marbles, she spotted something strange on the forest floor.

What could only be described as a rune or glyph glowed under some dead leaves. It was quite large, and drawn in something that shone an icy blue. Curious, Robyn neared closer, and picked up a long stick as she went. She tapped one of the lines, then jumped back in shock when the stick’s tip completely iced over. “What the fuck…?” Robyn touched the end with a finger, hissing when it came away cold. She hit the stick against a nearby tree and watched the frozen end shatter into icy fragments.

Was this the ‘magic’ her uncle and Harding had talked about?

Now she was _very_ excited. So excited, in fact, that Robyn forgot that the presence of magic meant that a mage was very close. Namely, a dangerous, crazy apostate mage. Almost skipping with glee, Robyn followed the icy glyphs, hitting each one with a different stick to see it crumble into ice. Soon after, there were so many glyphs that it was hard to avoid walking all over them. There were a few that glowed green, where when touched they would make the offending object ‘stick’ to the floor. Others glowed red, and Robyn didn’t need to be told that they were probably very dangerous and probably very fiery. A huge, gaping mouth of a cave soon appeared before her, but Robyn saw that there weren’t many ‘active’ glyphs left surrounding the entrance.

_Interesting._

Robyn crept forward, still clutching her bag like it was a weapon in itself. If she strained her ears, she could hear the distant, muffled clanging of metal-on-metal and the whooshing of something. There was some screaming too, but she didn’t want to think about that. Robyn gulped and backed away. Perhaps chasing after the Herald hadn’t been the greatest idea of her life.

Suddenly, four people burst out of the cave and Robyn squeaked in surprise. In that split second, she saw that they were an odd bunch; one man was entirely bald and dressed like a hobo, and the other was short, stocky and had a very hairy chest. One woman had short dark hair and carried a massive shield and sword. The other woman had very short hair that was shaved at the sides, and she had two long daggers strapped to her back. The most alarming detail, however, was that they were all splattered with blood.

Robyn had to use all the willpower in her body to not drop to the floor.

“Um, hello?” the woman with the daggers asked. She made no move to reach for her weapons, but the other woman’s fingers twitched around her sword.

“You don’t look like a mage,” the bald man observed. His accent sounded Irish, which almost distracted Robyn from the pointy ears he sported.

 _Pointy_ ears!

“Uh…” Robyn stammered. Her eloquent way with words had failed her yet again.

“We should restrain her,” the swordswoman urged. Her accent was also rather foreign, but that was the least of Robyn’s worries because she was carrying a _huge fucking sword_.

“I think she’s just lost,” the dagger woman countered. Her hair and angular cheekbones gave her a rather severe look, but her eyes had softened somewhat after the initial shock.

“Let’s escort her back to camp…” the short man added, and Robyn was surprised to hear his American accent. “Andraste knows she looks like someone’s just killed a puppy in front of her,”

Before anything more could be added to the very awkward conversation, Robyn blurted; “Are you the Herald of Andraste?”

The dagger woman’s eyebrows drew together in a deep frown, and the swordswoman leaped in front of her with absolute murder in her brown eyes. The bald man grasped his staff and adopted a weird battle stance, and Robyn’s eyes slid to the short man who had a rather magnificent crossbow trained on her eyes.

Robyn gulped.

_I literally didn’t sign up for this._

The world certainly works in mysterious ways, Robyn thought, because just as she was about to defend herself with a weak reply, the swordswoman screamed; “DUCK!” and tackled the dagger woman to the muddy ground. Robyn turned just in time to see a fireball hurtling towards her.

Desperately, Robyn threw up her arms to cover her face, her bag dropping to the floor, and then she was encased in warmth. Not scorching, burning heat, but warmth. It tickled a bit as well, like tiny ants were dancing across her skin. Soon enough, the tingling vanished. Robyn opened her eyes.

Her clothes were almost burnt to a crisp, and the grass around her was completely blackened, but otherwise she was unharmed.

_Huh._

The short man was the first to speak behind her. He looked bewildered, like he had just witnessed Jesus walking on water. “What in Andraste’s name-”

A cold edge of a blade pressed against her neck.

Robyn’s stomach still bubbled in the aftermath of another near-death experience.

“State your name and business,” the swordswoman said through gritted teeth. The bald man stepped in front of her, and his hand glowed with ripples of blue and green. They travelled across her skin like waves in the ocean, and that same tingling sensation followed. The man gave a small sound of interest when they dissipated.

“I am Robyn Smith,” somehow she found her voice. The short man and Herald now entered her field of vision. She felt a bead of sweat roll down the bridge of her nose. The Herald looked confused, but she held a dagger in her hand that looked like it had been dipped in a pot of red paint.

“And I’m here…” Robyn began. She begged her voice not to crack; that would be the icing on the fucking cake, “I’m here to help.”

The funny little group looked at each other.

_So much for being discreet._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa. I actually can't believe that I updated so quickly- hopefully the chapter is up to scratch, even if it's not as dramatic as the first one.  
> Chugger: 'charity mugger'- English slang for someone who pesters you about donating to charity etc  
> another note: the not-being-affected-by-magic thing could also be attributed to forprussia in their story Needs More Salt. I think it's an interesting subplot to follow, especially since our world doesn't have magic or the Fade.  
> If there's stuff that's a bit boring or clunky or doesn't make any sense, please let me know! I have no beta reader so I'm kinda going in blind here.  
> It's my first exam tomorrow so updates will be a bit slower from now until the end of June.  
> You also probably noticed Gandalf's little speech about death because I couldn't resist putting it in (it's just too beautiful)  
> Hope you enjoyed it!


	3. hands

_JUSTINIAN, 9:20 DRAGON//JUNE 3RD 1996_

_THE HARDEST PART ABOUT BEING IN THEDAS IS MAKING FRIENDS. THE PEOPLE ARE NICE ENOUGH, BUT YOU ONLY KNOW THEM A WEEK OR TWO BEFORE MOVING ON._

_SOMETIMES, WHEN YOU’RE LYING UNDER THE STARS PRETENDING TO KEEP WATCH, YOU WISH SOMEONE WAS THERE WITH YOU. NOT JUST FOR SEX OR FOR SOMEONE TO KEEP YOU COMPANY; YOU JUST NEED A REMINDER THAT YOU AREN’T ALONE, AND THAT YOU CAN TAKE THEIR HAND IF NEED BE._

_WHEN I RETURN TO LONDON IT’S JUST AS BAD. I LIVE AND WORK AND EAT AND SOCIALISE AMONGST PEOPLE WHO WILL NEVER, EVER UNDERSTAND SOME OF THE THINGS I’VE DONE. EVEN MY OWN BROTHER HAS NO IDEA WHAT MY ACTUAL DAY JOB IS._

_I RETURN TO TEACHING, AND I SPEND HOURS TALKING TO YOUNG PEOPLE, HOPING TO SHAPE THEIR MINDS LIKE THE WAY THE ORGANISATION SHAPES THEDAS._

_IT’S JUST ALL GENTLE PERSUASION. WITH LESS MURDER._

_ROBYN IS ALMOST FOUR YEARS OLD. SHE ASKS ME WHAT I DO FOR A LIVING. I SAY I’M A TEACHER. SHE THINKS IT’S BORING. WHEN SHE’S SITTING ON MY KNEE, BLABBERING TO HERSELF, AND MY FAMILY ARE EATING AND LAUGHING AROUND THE RATTY KITCHEN TABLE, I WISH THEY KNEW._

_I WISH THEY KNEW SO I HAD A HAND TO TAKE._

_-JUDEX_

* * *

 

Whoosh!

A crossbow bolt split the air and embedded itself in the mage’s forehead with a trickle of crimson blood. The short man with the chest hair smirked, obviously proud of his handiwork. Robyn agreed that it was a fantastic shot, but seeing the man’s eyes roll back into his head while his body crumpled to the floor reminded her that this was _real_.

And also rather disgusting.

“You’re here to help?” the Herald asked sceptically. She raised a delicate eyebrow at Robyn, which seemed to make her clear, noble voice ever sharper.

“Uh, well…” Robyn cleared her throat again, still cautious of the blade pressed against her throat. “Yes, I suppose I am,” she gave the woman a smile.

“How did you find us?” the swordswoman asked snappily. Robyn jumped, and when her eyes looked up she could clearly see the disdain and contempt written across the woman’s scarred face. Robyn gulped.

“I was at the Crossroads and spoke to a scout,” Robyn answered quietly. She didn’t want to implicate Eddie in the matter if it all went horribly south, which, judging by everyone’s expressions, was an increasing probability. Robyn inhaled sharply, and coughed slightly when soot from her singed clothes drifted up her nostrils. The woman swore in what seemed to be Russian, and _that_ certainly gave Robyn a start. She held her tongue, however, because sweat had started to trickle down her face and drip onto the beat-up blade.

“Seeker, a scout wouldn’t have sent her this way if she had bad intentions,” the American reasoned. His crossbow was now unloaded and he slung it across his back once more. Robyn glanced his way, and saw that he was smiling at her. A friendly face, at least.

“I trust in the Inquisition’s scouts wholly,” the woman (Seeker?) said through gritted teeth. Slowly, the blade left Robyn’s neck, and she took in great big gulps of air to clear her pounding head. The woman’s dark eyes narrowed. “Though, I can’t see how she can help. She has neither blade nor staff,”

“Perhaps her talents lay elsewhere, Seeker,” the Irishman argued. He was still studying her intently, and Robyn felt the strangest sense of dread that he knew something. A gloved hand appeared before her, which Robyn took, and the Herald helped her to her feet. On wobbly legs, Robyn unslung her heavy bag from her shoulders and let it drop to the grass with a muffled thump. The Herald was rather tall, Robyn saw, as were the swordswoman and Irishman. Suddenly feeling a lot more intimidated again, Robyn rolled her shoulders and looked at the floor.

“It certainly is fascinating…” the Herald murmured, her grey eyes searching Robyn’s body in wonder. “Even a dwarf new to the surface would’ve been burned to a crisp,” her gloved hand seemed to be glowing green as she trailed fingers along Robyn’s arm, and she traced a blackened hole in the tunic. Robyn shivered, and though the magic wasn’t ‘wavelike’ as the Irishman’s, it still felt like a fizzy drink had been poured over her skin.

“Indeed,” the bald man said. He leaned on his staff, pensive, and cocked his head to the side. Robyn looked away, swallowing thickly.

“What are we going to do with her?” the Seeker asked. She slid her sword into her scabbard loudly, like she was reminding Robyn that she was still unarmed and very vulnerable.

“Let’s at least take her back to the Crossroads,” the short man suggested, “Maker knows we’ve given her a big enough fright,”

The Herald appeared to ponder this, and looked to the bald man, who straightened his back. “I agree,” he said, and Robyn felt relief flood her body. “We’ll have to make camp soon, however,”

Finally, the Herald looked to the swordswoman, who sighed. “It would be cruel to leave her out here,” the Seeker said softly, catching Robyn off-guard.

_That was a change in heart if I ever saw one._

“It’s decided, then.” The Herald said. Her gloved hand extended once more, but Robyn took it in greeting, and as an equal, instead. “Thyra Trevelyan,”

“Robyn Smith,”

“Let’s leave the Witchwood before any more apostates show,” the Seeker ordered. She hoisted her shield onto her back, turned, then started marching at a break-neck speed into the woods. The short man sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes, and followed. Robyn winced and picked up her bag again. She _really_ didn’t want to do any more walking today.

Hurriedly, Robyn jogged behind the group once she saw that they had powered ahead. Twigs crunched beneath her boots and the clouds were grey in a darkening sky, and Robyn guessed it would rain again. She found herself next to the short man, whose easy-going demeanour immediately enticed her into conversation.

“Varric Tethras, author-turned-adventurer,” he introduced charmingly, and he flashed a smile at her. “You know Thyra, that’s Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast, and the bald homeless mage is Solas,” Solas turned and narrowed his eyes at Varric, but seemed cold as he returned his gaze forwards.

“Robyn,” she returned Varric’s grin genuinely. She recognised his name from the journals, albeit he appeared only briefly. Unfortunately, both diaries only went up to 9:35 Dragon, so she was literally going into uncharted territory. A small part of her hoped the ‘organisation’ would reach out soon, so she had some guidance at least.

“That’s quite the party trick you have there,” Varric snapped Robyn out of her thoughts. His tone was still uplifting, but the look in his eyes spoke of curiosity, almost like he was waiting to pick her reply apart.

“Um, yes,” Robyn cleared her throat slightly. Ahead of her, Solas lifted a branch out of the way and she ducked beneath it, her left fist clenching tightly. “I never knew I was… immune, until the conflict,” she said slowly. Varric nodded in understanding.

“From which part of the Hinterlands do you hail?” Thyra asked. Robyn took a deep intake of breath. She had some options: make a vague reference to a local area, and risk getting picked apart over that, or use a location mentioned in the journals. Feeling like she was well and truly plunging into the abyss, Robyn made her decision.

“I’m from Denerim, actually,” she replied- the capital appeared the most in both books, and the descriptions were the most vivid and easiest to remember.

“Denerim? What are you doing here?” Varric questioned. Robyn ducked under yet another branch, and felt leaves dragging across the top of her head.

“My father mentioned that my grandparents lived here, but I couldn’t find them. Guess I chose the wrong time for a family reunion.”

Varric chuckled. “I guess you did,”

Silence settled for the next few hours, and Robyn’s legs were burning with every excruciating step. Although she regularly jogged and went to the gym, this test of endurance was nothing she had encountered before. The significant reduction in food had also taken its toll, and the cramps that plagued her stomach hindered her progress too.

Rain had threatened to fall ever since the crack of dawn, so it was no surprise that fat, cold droplets soon began to pound their armour and leathers. Robyn wrapped her threadbare cloak tighter around her body, and shivers traversed her spine up and down and up and down. Clattering teeth and shaking hands followed, and soon Robyn felt ill, and even the Seeker looked to be struggling in the downpour.

Thyra slipped in the thick mud when they tried taking a shortcut down a grassy knoll, and quickly thereafter everyone was in agreement that it was time to stop and rest. Sitting under a rocky outcrop left them drier than in the open, so it was chosen for their camp. Varric’s dirt-encrusted hands were trembling as he tried to light a fire. It took a couple of attempts, but a weak flame sprung up amongst the moss and leaves, and the group huddled around it to soak up its feeble warmth.

Violent shivers still racked Robyn’s body, and she rubbed her hands together to generate some type of heat. A drop of rain slid down the slopes of her face, and she rubbed it away with the itchy, sooty material of her tunic. When she looked up to see Thyra still wearing her soaked gloves, she frowned. “Why don’t you take those off? You’ll probably be warmer,” Robyn nodded at the garments in question. Thyra smiled weakly.

“I’m not sure if you really want me to,” her voice sounded a little bit sad, Robyn thought, and her eyes were distant as she gazed into their little fire. Apprehensively, Thyra pulled one off by its fingers, and clenched and unclenched the scarred fingers of her right hand. She hesitated before pulling off the left, and the green light emanating from her hand seemed to glow brighter once she did. Robyn gasped quietly as Thyra opened her palm; the eerie green glow illuminated the fast descent of night, casting shadows against the rock face. The light rippled and fizzed, and Robyn saw that it was practically engrained into the Herald’s hand.

“What is it?” she asked quietly. A stray raindrop flew into their little shelter and dripped down the back of her neck.

“A mark,” Thyra said simply. It reflected in her grey eyes with the orange and red hues of the fire, making it seem ever more alien. “It opens rifts, it closes them, it stabilised the Breach…”

“It’s an unusual form of magic,” Solas added. His staff rested atop his crossed legs. “More research needs to be done before we fully understand it. Perhaps, if you enjoy the more scholarly aspects of life, you will be able to help us, Robyn.”

Cassandra shot the mage a dirty look, but Robyn smiled at the prospect. A path had just been opened for her.

Meanwhile, Thyra was still looking at her mark intently. Her fingers were still shaking from cold. Robyn, noticing this, cleared her throat again. “Does it hurt if you touch it?” Thyra averted her gaze and looked at her.

“Yes. Not badly, but…”

“Uncomfortable?”

Thyra nodded. She reached for her gloves, but before she could yank them on again, Robyn lightly touched her arm. “Maybe I can have a try?” she asked hopefully.

“If Robyn seems unaffected by magic, the mark may not react,” Solas offered. Robyn got the distinct feeling that he was only concerned with his new hypothesis, rather than the potential comfort to the Herald, but she remained silent. Tentatively, Thyra held out her hand. Robyn reached up, slowly, and wrapped her cold fingers around Thyra’s own. The Herald closed her eyes, like she was expecting her hand to burst into flames, but nothing happened. The fizzy drink sensation stroked Robyn’s hand again, but it wasn’t painful. Thyra’s callouses pressed into Robyn’s softer skin, and the woman opened her eyes, smiling.

“That feels nice,” she whispered. Blushing slightly, the Herald looked up to see Varric smirking.

“Fascinating,” Solas breathed. Robyn felt much better, now knowing that she could help at least one person in this world. She stroked her thumb over the back of Thyra’s hand, who squeezed her tighter. Cassandra, though slightly amused, also looked to be happy. Thyra drew her hand away after a time.

“I think my gloves are dry now,” she said, pulling them on.

Cassandra handed Robyn a chunk of hard bread and dried meat, which she devoured instantly. The rain still poured down relentlessly, and Robyn’s toes were beginning to numb. The twin moons appeared in the sky once clouds began to clear, which made Robyn’s heart race just slightly; it was going to take a long time to get used to, to see heavens which didn’t belong to her.

“I will take first watch,” Thyra said to the group. Cassandra took second, and Varric and Solas took third. Due to her inexperience in… camping, Robyn was left to sleep the whole night. She hit her bag until it resembled a crude pillow, then rested her head, still shivering. Her feet leeched off the fire’s heat, but as she saw Thyra staring into the black trees, moonlight glinting off her armour, she knew she would never be able to let her guard down.

Her bag made a lumpy pillow, but its contents were her lifeline in Thedas.

It was also a death sentence, if they fell into the wrong hands.

With that, Robyn fell into a broken, fitful sleep until Varric woke her at dawn’s first light.

* * *

 

When the sun rose the next day, the fire’s smoking remains were snuffed out with dirt and more bread was eaten. Fortunately, the rain had stopped early that morning, so the pleasant thickness in the air and the dew clinging to blades of grass were the only remnants of the mad weather. Well, the odd raindrop splashed onto Robyn’s head when she walked beneath the trees, and the mud was still sticky and hazardous, but the Crossroads were near.

Robyn realised that she had indeed walked in circles the previous day, but Varric seemed to have an impeccable sense of direction, so it was no more than a few hours before they ventured through a dank, fire-lit tunnel into the Crossroads. Inquisition scouts saluted as Thyra and Cassandra passed, and Robyn grasped the straps of her bag tighter, until her knuckles were a milk-white. She watched as Thyra spoke to Corporal Vale, and a sharp breeze ruffled the Herald’s damp hair while she gave her report. Vale thanked her and crossed his arms, bowing.

Beside Robyn, Varric looked up at her. “We’ll probably stay here for an hour or so to restock and give reports, and then we’ll take Mother Giselle to the Inquisition camp at the top of that hill,”

“Mother Giselle?”

Varric grumbled something and he beckoned for her to follow as he sat down on a moss-covered log, stretching his short legs. “The Chantry is in shambles, as you’ve probably guessed. Mother Giselle has offered her support in tackling the different factions,” he explained.

“That’s… nice,” Robyn said slowly. Varric laughed.

“Yeah, seems unnecessary, doesn’t it?” Varric squinted as he peered up at her. “They had too much control, and when it’s gone, everything goes to shit,” he kicked a stone by his feet.

“I know what you mean,” Robyn murmured. This all sounded way too familiar.

Thyra joined them on the log, sighing. “I need a hot bath, a hot meal, and some dry clothes,” she groaned. Varric laughed again.

“You and me both, Boss,” he agreed. Robyn added herself to that statement, though it looked as if they had been on the road far longer than she had.

Laughing children streamed past the trio, one of them brandishing a wooden stick as a sword. Robyn smiled, but she saw that they were skinner than what was healthy, and their skin was pale and stretched over features too sharp for kids. A reminder, maybe, that Robyn was extremely lucky to have been born into twenty-first century England. She wondered if the Organisation cared for these children; did they see their suffering, did they ease it, or were they the cause? Robyn barely suppressed a shiver at that notion.

“Are you still cold?” Thyra asked her, a hint of worry tingeing her words.

“A little,” Robyn replied thickly.

“We might need to find you some warmer clothes,” Thyra looked over Robyn’s burned attire, a wide smile stretching across her face.

Robyn gave a short laugh. “Yeah, I think you may be right.”

A shadow, in the form of the Seeker, then blocked the sun. “Are you ready to depart?” she asked Thyra, who nodded. Groaning, Varric stood from the log and picked up his crossbow.

Thyra put a hand on Robyn’s shoulder, urging her forward slightly. “We’ll find you some clothes at the next camp,” she said to her, squeezing her shoulder, then Robyn was released. Whilst they left the Crossroads and its laughing children and chattering adults, Robyn already knew that this ongoing betrayal would never end well, but she had no choice.

That was what she told herself, anyway.

* * *

 

The next camp was very small but well stocked, and Cassandra explained that it was the first Inquisition camp to be established, barely days after the reformation of the old order. Robyn was given a warmer set of leggings, tunic and a new cloak, but her boots stayed, singed as they were. She washed her face with a bowl of water and soap from her bag, and cleaned her teeth discreetly before spitting the white foam into a nearby bush.

Wiping her face, Robyn looked into the screen on her phone. It was on front-facing camera, and she saw her cheeks were slightly red and peeling, and freckles had appeared in abundance across her nose. Her lip curled when she tried to run a brush through her tangled, greasy hair, and gave up after what felt like a chunk of her scalp had been ripped off.

“Fuck,” she swore, and a scout passing her tent laughed. Rolling her eyes, Robyn started to wet her hair and then tried once more. The tent’s flap flipped open, a gust of wind whipping at the material, and Thyra entered. Panicked, Robyn locked her phone and tucked it into the waistband of her leggings.

“Need any help?” the Herald asked.

“Uh… yeah, thanks,” Robyn gave the small brush to the woman, who gently pulled apart the knotted strands of her hair with her fingers before using the big guns. Robyn cleared her throat; “You seem to have practice, even though your hair is…”

“Non-existent?” Thyra asked. Robyn’s cheeks reddened and the Herald laughed. The brush started to glide through Robyn’s wet hair with ease.

“I’m just curious, is all,” Robyn shrugged, “Especially since Varric told me you were noble, so wouldn’t you have… servants?”

“We did have servants,” Thyra began. She set the brush down on the top of Robyn’s bag, finished with her task, before collapsing onto one of two bedrolls in the tent. “I used to do my sisters’ hair all the time, before…”

“Before what?” Robyn urged. Even though she felt like she was overstepping boundaries, her natural curiosity was piqued.

“One was taken away to the Circle. She set her bed on fire,” Thyra said softly. There were no tears in her eyes or trembling lips, but Robyn could still sense the lingering grief. “My other sister decided to join the Chantry as a sister,”

“Sounds fun,” Robyn mumbled, drawing a laugh from the older woman.

“It does, doesn’t it?” Thyra stretched her hands behind her head. “Believe it or not, my hair used to be down to my waist,”

“No!” Robyn grinned widely.

“It’s true…” Thyra returned a smirk. “My mother and her ladies adored it. One day, when they were all off praying in the Chantry, I had pretended to be sick, and I got a dagger from my brother’s room, and just chopped it all off!”

Robyn sat down on the adjacent bedroll, trying to ignore the rocks embedded in the lumpy ground. Thyra continued with her story; “My family was always so religious; you see? Not only did I cut my hair, but I took up daggers and swordplay, and I sneaked into the local taverns to gamble. On more than one occasion I was caught in bed with a handsome mercenary, or a beautiful barmaid.”

Robyn couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. The holy Herald of Andraste, a hedonistic sinner!

“My parents were furious,” Thyra said sadly, “But I never felt guilty about all my sins. Still don’t, in fact,”

“I don’t see why you should,” Robyn agreed, lying down. The warm clothes and warm company left her at ease, and she felt more relaxed than she had in weeks. “You weren’t hurting anybody, you just wanted to live life to the fullest, yeah?”

“While ruining myself for my future husband, yes,” Thyra said cheekily, laughing. Robyn scoffed.

“Who gives a fuck what men think? They’re not expected to close their legs and stay pure, so why should we?”

Thyra laughed loudly, and the sound was rather lovely, even it was a bit of a snort. “That’s what I’ve always thought! And when my parents brought it up, I said that my brother Maxwell was the true sinner, since he cried during a romp with a prostitute and hurt her feelings,”

Robyn burst into laughter at that point, and both women clutched at their stomachs when they began to ache. Thyra wiped a tear from her eye, grinning, and reached over to clasp Robyn’s hand. “You’re a good one, Robyn. I hope we can be friends,”

“Me too,” Robyn agreed.

“Herald?” a scout called from outside the tent.

Thyra sighed, and she sat up. “Yes?”

“Solas has arrived with Mother Giselle,”

Solas had been left at the Crossroads to help heal the last of the refugees, as the Mother had refused to leave them until she was satisfied. For that, Robyn could admire her, but her status as an important religious figure still gave her the heebie-jeebies.

“I’ll be back in a moment,” Thyra said to her. Robyn nodded.

“It never ends, does it?” Robyn asked; she could never understand the responsibility placed on such an important person, if it was truly Thyra that had to seal the Breach.

“No, it doesn’t,” Thyra brushed her leathers down and walked to the tent’s entrance. “And I have a feeling it’s only just beginning, too,”

Robyn was left to ponder as the Herald went to speak with the mother. Somehow, she had an impending sense of dread that she too would face challenges and more responsibility. Robyn tossed onto her side, mindful of her damp hair, and closed her eyes.

Her phone was cold against her stomach, and she shivered.

* * *

 

Chatter, laughter and singing awoke Robyn some hours later, and she cursed once she realised she had slept longer than she had intended. Night was falling quickly, and she tucked her phone into her bag and left the tent. A large fire crackled in the centre of camp and a deer was slowly turning on a spit, fat dripping into the sputtering flames. The smell was delicious, and Robyn felt her stomach rumble.

Before she could join her companions, however, another scout approached her. A rolled up piece of parchment was pressed into her hands, making Robyn freeze, but the scout disappeared into the night. The seal was black, plain, foreboding. Robyn retreated back into the tent and lit a candle. She broke the seal with her nail and peeled it off, then unravelled the message.

_MISS SMITH,_

_WE WELCOME YOU TO OUR ORGANISATION. BY NOW, YOU MAY ALREADY HAVE A BACKSTORY. WE ASK THAT YOU KEEP IT SIMPLE AND FORGETTABLE, AS IT AVOIDS QUESTIONS._

_IF YOU REPLY TO THIS MESSAGE WITH THE BARE BONES OF YOUR STORY, WE CAN ALERT CONTACTS AND BUILD A BELIEVABLE ACCOUNT._

_WE HAVE HEARD THAT SISTER NIGHTINGALE IS THE INQUISITION’S SPY MASTER. WE ASK THAT YOU DO NOT SEEK HER OUT, BUT DO NOT AVOID HER, EITHER._

_YOUR OPERATIVE NAME WILL BE ELUVIA. ANY CONTACTS THAT APPROACH YOU WILL NOW CALL YOU BY THAT NAME, IF YOU ARE ALONE. YOU CAN THEN BE CERTAIN THAT THEY WORK FOR US._

_THE FIRST PART OF YOUR WATCH IS TO MAKE SURE YOU HAVE ACCESS TO THE HERALD AND THEIR INNER CIRCLE. A GOOD LEADER WILL ALWAYS VALUE THEIR FRIENDS’ VIEWS, AND WE HOPE TREVELYAN FULFILLS THIS REQUIREMENT._

_THIS NEW ERA FOR THEDAS IS SENSITIVE, AND EXTREMELY DIFFICULT TO MONITOR. AS SUCH, WE CANNOT OFFER IN-DEPTH ADVICE OR ORDERS._

_YOU ARE A CAPABLE THINKER, MISS SMITH, AND WE ARE CONFIDENT IN YOUR ABILITIES TO HOLD POWER DISCREETLY._

_SINCERELY,_

_-ARTIFEX_

_P.S WE RECOMMEND YOU BURN THESE LETTERS AND KEEP RECORDS ON YOUR PHONE, FOR SECURITY REASONS._

Eluvia. That was an odd name. She liked it, Robyn decided, even if it did sound like a terrible first OC name. Following Artifex’s advice, she took a picture of both letters she had received thus far and burned them. As the tiny flames licked up the sides of the parchment, Robyn turned her phone off and hid it amongst her Earth clothes. When there was naught but ashes left of the letters, Robyn penned a quick reply to Artifex regarding her story, and rolled it up, then exited the tent to find the scout. Wordlessly, they took the letter and sealed it with the same black wax, and tucked it into their coat.

“Maker watch over you, Eluvia,”

“Maker watch over you,” In the distance, a wolf howled and it echoed through the hills. It sounded mournful, and lost, and Robyn shook her head to rid herself of the cobwebs.

“Little Bird!” Varric called. Confused, Robyn looked up to see the dwarf waving her over to the fire. She made her way over, an eyebrow raised in question.

“Little Bird? Really?” she asked, sitting herself down. Varric shrugged.

“Well your name is Robyn… you’re small and dainty… it’s perfectly fitting,” he reasoned.

“At least you are not known as ‘Chuckles’,” Solas sighed, and Robyn stifled a laugh.

“Yes, I should be counting my lucky stars,” Robyn drawled. Varric winked and passed her a hunk of bread filled with slices of roast deer, then launched into a dramatic, highly exaggerated story of how the Champion of Kirkwall had slayed a mighty high dragon in an abandoned mine.

The scouts were hanging onto the storyteller’s every word, and they gasped, laughed and cheered where appropriate. The deer was indeed delicious, and Robyn caught Thyra’s eyes across the fire, and she smiled. Thyra cocked her head to the forest and stood up. Curious, Robyn followed, finishing her last bites of bread. Under the canopy of leaves and stars, and after a few near-misses with stray tree roots, Thyra stopped.

“What is it?” Robyn asked.

“I was wondering if you wanted to come to Haven with us, if you don’t want to go back to Denerim, that is,” the Herald suggested. “I know that Solas wants to study your immunity, and if you really want to help, you might prefer actually working with the Inquisition…”

“Yes,” Robyn cut in quickly.

Thyra looked up in surprise, but grinned. “You sure?”

“Yep,” Robyn said, shifting her weight from foot to foot, “Seems a waste to just… wander, you know?”

“I know what you mean,” Thyra said softly. Suddenly, she threw her arm around Robyn’s shoulders and ruffled her hair. “Hey!” The Herald laughed, loud and clear, and kept laughing until the red glow of the fire appeared through the black lines of the tree trunks. “Sorry, but now you’re travelling with us, you are now officially the surrogate younger sister,”

“If I’d have known that I wouldn’t have accepted,” Robyn spit, “You’re a _menace_ ,”

“I know,” Thyra winked, and the moonlight glinted off her white teeth. “Perhaps that’s why my sister really left,”

“I’m not surprised,” Robyn smiled, ducking through the flap to their tent. They crawled onto their bedrolls, owls hooted in the trees outside, and Thyra sighed.

“I don’t feel quite so alone, now,” the Herald whispered. It felt like another middle school sleepover, where they dared each other to watch horror films and stay up until after midnight, and Robyn smiled again.

“Are you saying that because you are beginning to like me, or because I’m the only one who can hold your hand?”

“A little bit of both,” Thyra replied, then she blew out the candle.

* * *

 

It took five days to reach Haven in the foothills in the Frostbacks, and a homesickness settled in Robyn’s bones that made her whole body ache. Conversations with Thyra and Varric were always lively, but they weren’t her family or close friends. Not yet, anyway.

Once or twice, when she was meant to be gathering firewood, Robyn listened to the voicemails on her phone. Most were just reminders, some were even chastisement for forgetting to buy eggs, but hearing her mother, father, Kirsty and Louise speak would lift her spirits just a little bit, because it reminded her that home was still there.

Robyn would stumble back to camp with red eyes, clutching twigs and branches, but no-one would ask her questions. Mother Giselle tried to get everyone to open up, though not through prayer, surprisingly. Unsurprisingly, however, was that everyone was guarded and irritable from long journeys, so her attempts were often fruitless.

It got colder as they went higher, and Robyn longed for a ski-jacket or even a hand warmer. She had taken to wearing her white t-shirt under her tunic and both pairs of socks, but her teeth still chattered and her body still shivered the higher they climbed. Five days without bathing, working toilets, proper food and a good night’s sleep made her weak, physically and mentally. Robyn wondered how long she would be stuck in Thedas; specifically, how long she could last without her anti-depressants before her mental health took a turn for the worse.

One redeeming quality of Thedas was the mesmerising scenery. Golden sunlight glinted off snow and frozen lakes alike, and the powdered white crystals of ice that lined tree branches and settled on the ground were crunchy and pure. Thyra loaned her a spare pair of gloves the closer they got to Haven, but Robyn seriously feared that her toes were going to fall off from frostbite. Once they saw the settlement cresting a hill, Robyn heaved a sigh of relief. Haven formed images of holidays in Robyn’s mind; sandy beaches, caravans, doughnut trucks, fish and chips to name a few, but this was more like a Whiterun-type settlement from Skyrim than a British holiday-at-home.

“Isn’t that a sight for sore eyes?” Varric said to her, and Robyn wholeheartedly agreed. As they meandered along a dirt road, the distant clangs of sword fighting rang through her ears, making her wince. A tall man in a fur surcoat stood barking orders at recruits, and Cassandra left to join him once they neared the gates to the village.

“I’ll talk to Cullen later,” Thyra muttered, “Right now I need a fucking _bath_ ,”

Giggling, Robyn followed Thyra up some icy steps. Solas bade them a goodbye and went off somewhere, probably to take a nap, and Robyn breathed a little easier once he left. Varric left to go to the tavern, where both Robyn and Thyra promised to join him later, so it was just the three of them that ventured to the Chantry. It was an imposing building, all thick, high walls and towers, and the biting wind that swept through Robyn’s hair and stung her cheeks made her even more apprehensive, but Mother Giselle gave her a reassuring smile. Thyra pushed open the heavy doors, and Robyn was suddenly reminded of that scene in Lord of the Rings where Aragorn is revealed to be alive and-

Two women approached the trio. One was in a golden ruffled dress and held a sort of medieval clipboard, whereas the other was in a dark, hooded robe... thing. “It is good to see you, Herald,” the golden woman said brightly. Her accent and colouring were obviously foreign, but she seemed to be friendly, at least.

“This is Mother Giselle, Ambassador,” Thyra introduced amiably, though her voice was strained from a long, tiring journey.

“We shall wait to hear your reports until you are properly rested, Herald,” the robed woman said. Her accent sounded French, and Robyn caught side of red hair tucked under her hood. “And who is this?”

When her gaze turned to Robyn, Robyn felt her stomach churn.

“This is Robyn,” Thyra said, more lively than before. “She wants to help the Inquisition and has offered her services as a scholar… well, as someone who can read and write,”

“We are glad to hear it,” the Frenchwoman smiled, “I’m afraid more people are willing to pick up the sword than the pen in this war, so it is good we have a more… diplomatic approach,”

“If you are willing, you may work with me,” the Ambassador offered, “The work is often tedious, but essential,”

“I’d be happy to,” Robyn accepted, but the Frenchwoman’s stare still unnerved her. Though she could not place it, she suspected that this was the ‘Sister Nightingale’ mentioned in Artifex’s letter.

“Good. If you excuse us, we need some hot food and a hot bath,” Thyra placed her hand on Robyn’s shoulder once more, nodded at Mother Giselle, then started to push Robyn towards the door.

“The Council shall be held tomorrow morning!” the Ambassador called, a smile still on her face.

“I look forward to it,” Thyra muttered, just as the door opened and a lone snowflake drifted into the darkness of the Chantry, falling slowly to the floor where it melted.

* * *

 

The hot bath had been a gift from God, Robyn decided, as feeling seeped into her toes and fingers once more. True, when she had dipped her foot into the steaming water it had felt like she had been doused in petrol and set aflame, but she got used to it after crying for about five minutes.

With freshly washed hair, a scrubbed back and cleaned teeth, Robyn dressed into some slightly warmer clothes that had been set out for her. Idly, she ran a finger down the material of her bomber jacket, feeling the even, machined stitching at the hems, then stuffed it back into the confines of her bag. She shoved it under her cot after making a pile of laundry, and positioned her muddy boots in front of it as to deter thieves, like she was protecting her bag in her school’s changing rooms all over again.

The door opened, revealing a red-faced Thyra with melting snowflakes in her hair. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yep,” Robyn answered, tying her cloak around her shoulders. Though they now shared a room, at the request of the Herald herself, Thyra had bathed quickly and left to find Cullen and Cassandra whilst Robyn washed.

The cold, stinging wind that seemed to haunt Robyn wherever she went had returned, and she hoped to every deity that she wouldn’t get a cold. A blocked nose would _really_ make her week worse.

‘The Singing Maiden’ was the village pub and it looked as if every soldier, scout, mage, Templar and Chantry sister had piled into the building. The plucked notes of a lyre floated through the open windows, as did laughing, singing, shouting and brawling. Smiling, Thyra pushed open the door. Robyn was no stranger to pubs or clubs, but the absolute crush of people in the tavern was rather astounding. The stink of sweat curled around her nostrils, making her eyes water, but the atmosphere was jolly. The bar was on the left, and a barmaid was busy pouring mugs of watery ale for the patrons. A few were passed out drunk, slumped in their stools and on the benches, but even more looked like they were following. Loud, booming laughter erupted from a table in the far corner, and a barmaid walked away with empty mugs balanced precariously in her arms.

Thyra, having spotted Varric, grasped Robyn’s hand and tugged her through the crowd. A few whistles drifted through the thick, smoky air, but one sharp look from the Herald was all it took to silence them. Upon further inspection, Robyn saw that Varric wasn’t alone. Opposite him, and therefore faceless to Robyn, was a very tall, broad shouldered dark-haired man. Gulping, Robyn tried to contain her growing anxiousness as Thyra slid onto the bench with practiced ease. Funnily enough, Thyra seemed more at ease drinking in the tavern than helping to command the Inquisition, but she had spent much of her teenage life in and out of different taverns, so Robyn felt like she shouldn’t have been surprised.

“Ah, Boss! Little Bird! Welcome to the Singing Maiden!” Varric shouted over the chatter of the crowd. Robyn had no choice but to sit next the stranger, and so she was careful to not accidentally touch his thigh with her own.

“It’s good to see you again, Carver,” Thyra nodded at the stranger.

“You too, Herald,” Carver replied. His large hands dwarfed the mug of ale cradled within them, and he raised it to his mouth to take a swig. Then, Robyn could truly see his features. He had short dark hair, a strong jaw, a straight nose, and sharp cheekbones. He was rather handsome, Robyn thought, blushing, but he had a sense of bitterness about him. The way he held his drink and eyed Varric was enough to make anyone feel the tension between him and the rest of the world. On the other hand, there was also a sense of familiarity about him, like she had met him before…

“Who are you?” he asked Robyn suddenly, snapping her out of her quiet reverie. His blue eyes were narrowed slightly as he considered the woman next to him.

“I’m Robyn,” she said in reply, pink tinging her cheeks. A mug of ale was set down in front of her, and she saw the dust floating in the top. Grimacing, she left it alone.

“So you’re the stray the dwarf was talking about,” Carver grinned. Robyn’s cheeks flamed even more.

“Now, now, Junior, it takes real guts to venture out into the Hinterlands alone, even if she did look like she was going to faint most of the time,” Varric teased.

“Gee, thanks,” Robyn mumbled. Her three companions laughed, and Robyn vowed to herself to leave if this turned into a being-mean-to-Robyn session.

“Little Bird…” Carver considered, taking another big gulp of ale. He wiped away the foam around his mouth with a hand. “I can see that,”

“At first I mistook you for an elf,” Thyra admitted, “But even elves don’t pass out at the sight of blood,”

Varric laughed loudly, and Carver grinned. Robyn straightened her back. “You know, I didn’t think this was going to be ‘Let’s point out every one of Robyn’s faults!’ kinda thing, so I might just leave now,”

“Oh come on Little Bird, we’re just teasing you,” Varric said warmly, and Robyn simmered down slightly.

“Yeah, at least it’s not as bad as ‘Junior’,” Carver said with contempt. His mug was now empty, Robyn saw, and he called the barmaid over for another one.

“You can have mine, you know,” Robyn offered.

“Why? Has the dwarf done something to it?” he asked suspiciously. Varric threw up his arms in mock offence.

“Hey! I haven’t done anything to it!”

Robyn laughed. “No, I just don’t like ale,” she pushed the mug towards him. Carver looked at it intently once more, like it was going to explode in his hands, then took a sip. Satisfied, he smacked his lips and gulped down some more.

“You’re going to die young if you keep that habit up, Junior,” Varric warned jokingly. Carver rolled his eyes, downing the ale in one go.

“There’re worse ways to go,” he shrugged. His eyes seemed unfocused for a moment, like he was remembering something, before he shook his shoulders. Varric also seemed quiet. Robyn wondered what had happened between them, or if something had transpired that affected them both. Breaking the silence, Thyra cleared her throat.

“Definitely. As soon as we entered the Hinterlands, I was almost mauled to death by a bear,” Robyn laughed, and also thanked the Gods that she hadn’t encountered any dangerous creatures on her journey to find the Herald. Varric also cut in saying that Solas, or ‘Chuckles’, had almost been ran down by a wild ram, and Carver had almost snorted ale out of his nose.

As the night drew on, the tavern seemed to almost fill to bursting point. Every available space on a bench was taken, meaning Robyn and Carver were pressed together from knee to shoulder. Or, in Carver’s case, from knee to upper arm. Varric and Thyra were similarly crushed together, and Robyn had almost fallen off the bench multiple times, if Carver hadn’t caught her around the waist and pulled her back into her seat. Embarrassingly, she had spent the vast majority of the night blushing, whether because of the sticky heat in the tavern, Varric’s constant jibes at her, or her proximity to Carver’s sheer furnace-like body, and in turn that had earned many jokes, too.

Thyra started laughing when she caught Robyn yawning, and teased her for it relentlessly. Finally, Robyn had had enough, and declared she was going to bed. “You’re such a lightweight, Robyn,” Thyra jested, and Robyn rolled her eyes.

“I wasn’t even drinking,”

“Exactly! Who goes to a tavern and doesn’t drink?” Varric laughed. “Are you sure you don’t want to stay for a game of Wicked Grace?”

“I’m sure. It’s been a week since I slept in a proper bed, so I’m going to do just that,” Robyn answered. She stood from the bench and rolled her shoulders.

“And no company for that lovely bed?” Thyra winked. Robyn turned beet-red, much to her chagrin, and huffed a sigh.

“No,” she said simply, losing her patience. Right now, some clean pyjamas and bedsheets and an actual mattress were far more appealing than another sweaty body to share the night with. “Maybe another day,”

To her surprise, Carver also said he was turning in for the night. Robyn bade Varric and Thyra a good night and wished them luck in their card game, and they scoffed and told her Wicked Grace wasn’t a game of ‘luck’. Before they could lecture her on the skill and intricacies of the game, Robyn and Carver had pushed their way through the crowd and into the cold, dark night.

Their breath ghosted in front of their faces like smoke, and Carver audibly shivered. “You never get used to it,” he said to her, whilst they descended a set of stairs.

“How long have you been here?” she asked, tongue numb in her mouth. She drew her cloak closer around herself.

“A few weeks. I came with Commander Cullen from Kirkwall, with some others from the Order,” he replied tersely. “The climate is a bit of a bugger, really,”

Robyn snorted a laugh, and immediately her cheeks heated with a blush, but Carver paid her no mind, other than a small smirk. She cleared her throat. “I’m guessing you’re turning in because the Commander will have your head if you turn up late?”

“Precisely,” Carver confirmed. “If I could spend all night drinking terrible ale in the tavern, I would,”

“Oh,” Robyn said. “That’s a bit…”

“Sad? I know,” Carver interrupted. He sounded bitter, especially for someone so young, but there was also a tinge of mourning in there. Robyn decided to not pursue the subject.

They reached Thyra’s rooms and stopped. “Well, let’s hope you don’t have a splitting hangover tomorrow morning,” said Robyn.

“Me too,” Carver grinned, “Though it wouldn’t be the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last.” He started to walk away towards the barracks, where the Templars were housed in flimsy canvas tents.

“Goodnight, Carver,” Robyn called. A sharp gust of wind made her cloak flap noisily.

“Goodnight, Little Bird,” he called back, almost drowned out by the wind, and soon he was gone.

Robyn sighed, rubbed at her eyes, and opened the door to the hut. She had to fight to close it again, but a fire was roaring in the fireplace and she slipped off her cloak. She sat on the bed and pulled off her new boots, which pinched her toes, and changed into some nightwear after cleaning her face and teeth. She listened to a voice message of her mother’s, smiling, before blowing out the candle by her bed. Under the covers, Robyn rolled onto her side, cradling her pillow, and closed her eyes.

However, a nagging thought still plagued her mind. She sat up, pulled the covers off and searched for her torch in the Organisations’ bag. In her own beat-up rucksack, her fingers closed around the small box of photographs. She drew them out, and the torch’s bright white light stabbed at the back of her eyes, but there was no mistaking the figures.

There, with his father, mother, brother, sister and dog, was Carver Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that was up to scratch. I was really stuck with this one, until I suddenly wrote 6000 words in one day, so it is probably filled to the brim with spelling and grammar mistakes.


	4. alone

_CLOUDREACH 9:16 DRAGON // APRIL 22 ND 1992_

_YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I WANT CHURROS RIGHT NOW. AND SOME PARACETAMOL._

_ALL JOKES ASIDE, I’M GOING TO BE AN UNCLE._

_MARK ANNOUNCED THAT HE AND ROSE WERE EXPECTING JUST BEFORE I LEFT. SHE’S ABOUT A MONTH ALONG, AND ALREADY THEY’RE PAINTING THE WALLS OF THEIR SPARE ROOM AND LOOKING THROUGH BABY NAME BOOKS. I HOPE THEY DON’T CHOOSE SOMETHING STUPID._

_IT WILL BE ODD HOLDING A SMALL LIFE IN MY HANDS. USUALLY I ONLY TAKE IT._

_IF THEY’RE ANYTHING LIKE THEIR FATHER THEN THEY WILL BE FINE. IF THEY’RE ANYTHING LIKE ME… THAT’S ANOTHER MATTER ENTIRELY._

_DID YOU KNOW THAT THEY HAVE ROBINS IN THEDAS AS WELL? THERE ARE MORE OF THEM HERE, YET YOU NEVER SEE THEM IN GROUPS. THEY’RE ALWAYS ALONE._

_ALONE, BUT STILL SWEET. I HOPE THEY DON’T END UP IN MY PIE TONIGHT._

_-JUDEX_

* * *

 

A sharp ringing of metal awoke Robyn the next day. A thick foulness lingered in her mouth, her joints ached terribly, and a muscle in her neck was throbbing. Groaning, Robyn opened her sleep-encrusted eyes and blinked in the pale light of dawn. She rubbed at them, arms protesting with the movement, and she let out an almighty sigh.

Soft snores were coming from the bed on the other side of the room, where mismatched blankets were piled on top of Thyra like an anthill. Robyn stretched, wincing. She had promised Josephine that she would come to her office on the third bell of the morning, yet it was still very soon after dawn, and Robyn felt unbelievably grateful that she hadn’t drank the night before.

The straps of her rucksack were poking out of the simple drawstring bag, and she hastily tucked them inside again. Birds twittering outside reminded Robyn that the day was about to start for many of the Haven residents, and she would probably find it difficult to sleep in. Robyn groaned again. She was _not_ a morning person.

It was at this point that Robyn felt terribly homesick; fuzzy dressing-gowns, huge slippers, fresh orange juice, pancakes with lemon and sugar… it was all gone. She would have to make do with lumpy, tasteless porridge, watered-down ale, itchy cloaks and uncomfortable leather boots. That depressive feeling stayed as Robyn changed her socks and pulled on a clean pair of underwear, then shimmied into the leggings and slipped into her t-shirt and tunic before tying her cloak around her shoulders. She rinsed out her mouth with some water and sucked on a Tic Tac, combed out her tangled hair with her fingers, and splashed some ice-cold water onto her face.

Sputtering, Robyn decided every movie and TV show she had ever seen was lying; her face was now red and splotchy, tears were leaking out of her eyes, and the collar of her tunic was now sopping wet. With chattering teeth, Robyn cursed those show writers and vowed to _never_ do that again. As she wrestled her feet into her boots (it was quite hard with three pairs of socks on), Robyn peered out of the little window to see a light dusting of snow covering the village. Some people, like messengers, soldiers and cooks, were already up and bustling about. It almost looked like home, Robyn thought, when she would wake up at seven o’clock every weekday to get ready for work, and she would see her fellow commuters already piling into her local Tube station as she watched from her flat.

A heavy feeling settled in her chest, like a weight was being balanced on top of her ribcage. Something akin to nausea rolled in her stomach, and although Robyn knew she wasn’t going to be sick, the breathlessness and dread made her feel like she was teetering on the edge of a cliff, about to fall.

For the third time that morning, Robyn sighed. She put on a pair of Thyra’s gloves and strode over to the door, but then quickly went over to the older woman’s bed. Smiling, Robyn saw that her short hair was sticking up in every direction, and she had curled up into a ball with the blankets twisted around her legs. Robyn pulled the blankets down slightly, hoping that Thyra wouldn’t suffocate herself with them while she was out, and then she opened the lodge’s door.

A small snowflake drifted through to land on the threadbare rug, but the wind was weaker than it had been the day before. Robyn stepped outside, already feeling the bitter cold numb her ears, and was amused to see that the tavern already had patrons. Unsure of where to find breakfast, Robyn’s eyes were drawn to the south of the village, or rather what lay beyond it. Without much thought, Robyn found herself walking to the training grounds beyond the huge, hulking gates of Haven, and she tugged her cloak closer around herself.

She hadn’t noticed it much before, but Thedas had a certain… aura, about it. The only thing Robyn could compare it to was when all the power in your house goes out, and only then do you notice the absence of the electricity that usually buzzed through miles and miles of copper wiring. Magic hummed through the earth below her feet and through buildings and plants and people, yet not through herself. It was like Robyn was an unmovable boulder in the path of a slow, winding river. Magic was energy, Robyn thought, and she could only imagine how her uncle had coped with its absence when he returned to London, if he noticed at all.  

Idly, her thoughts wondered back to Carver. She wondered if he’d made it to training on time, or if he was currently on the receiving end of Cullen’s wrath. Robyn smirked; perhaps this morning wouldn’t be so bad, after all. Once the gates swung open and she was exposed to the much harsher mountain air, Robyn had the sudden realisation that perhaps she would be more comfortable, more warm, inside the village.

A horse whinnied to her left and she jumped back in fright. She didn’t _hate_ horses, per se, but she wasn’t their greatest fan either, so she decided to avoid them for as long as possible. But, as the main transport in Thedas other than walking, Robyn knew that her efforts would be futile in only a matter of time.  A gust of wind whistled through the trees and up the mountainside, whipping at the canvas walls of the tents which snapped and wavered. Shivering, Robyn felt even more blessed that Thyra had wanted them to share a warm and sturdy lodge, so Robyn felt very sorry for Carver and his fellow Templars and soldiers indeed. 

Up ahead, Cullen was already awake and about, barking commands at the new recruits and critiquing their skills. Their movements were obviously sloppy and sluggish, but the commander was patient with them, and offered helpful, if brutally honest, advice. To the side were the more seasoned warriors; they wore heavier silver armour and wielded more-expensive and deadlier weapons, many were engaged in sparring matches that seemed to intertwine with each other, like couples waltzing on a dancefloor.

Another shiver rolled down Robyn’s spine but she walked over to watch them nonetheless, fascinated. She sat down on a nearby log with creaky joints and huddled in her cloak, but it was obvious to see that these warriors were very, very, good, and the show almost made up for the cold. They parried and leapt and dodged and struck and rolled and jumped and blocked and shouted, and the overwhelming sound and sight and smell completely mesmerised Robyn. Once or twice she had to remind herself that these fights were not choreographed like in the movies, where every kick and punch was carefully planned to make the audience gasp, but these were just people surviving. Granted, they were not life or death duels, but they were still raw and rough.

Robyn grinned once she spotted Carver in the throng. He was the tallest out of all them, and one of the few that wasn’t wearing a helmet. His cheeks were red, probably from the cold and exertion, and his hair stuck to his forehead and curled at the nape of his neck. He wielded a giant sword that was probably as tall as she was, but he sliced at his partner effortlessly, like it was only a foam pool noodle. It was also clear that he was winning, but a nod from his partner to someone else meant that another challenger entered the fray. Soon he was holding off two people at once, yet all he did was smile.

The powerful swings of his sword were rather difficult to avoid, Robyn saw, as one of his challengers had to literally death-drop to the frozen ground to avoid having their head chopped off. When Robyn had played as a two-handed wielder in numerous videogames she had always lamented the slow swings that left her defence open, yet Carver fought with speed and power and cunning all at the same time. With hitched breath, Robyn watched him catch an opponent’s blade with his own and disarm them quickly, slashing at their throat to indicate their ‘death’, and swung his greatsword to swipe at the other’s underarm when they raised their weapon. Knowing the fight was over, his two opponents yielded. “Wow,” Robyn said under her breath.

Carver shook hands with them then slung his sword across his broad back, making to leave the ring. Robyn pondered whether to call out to him, but decided against it when she had visions of herself calling out with a hoarse, thick voice which would just be plain embarrassing. Thankfully, he saw her as well, and walked over with long, purposeful strides. Robyn cleared her throat.

“Did you get your head chewed off by Cullen?” she asked, and he sat down beside her.

“No, thank the Maker,” he replied. His armour was different to the other Templars, his was just plain silver with no insignia, and the odd purple skirt was also missing. Carver saw Robyn consider it and he sighed. “I’ve officially left the Order to join the Inquisition, now,” he said lowly, by means of an explanation.

“Like Cullen?”

“Yeah,” Carver shrugged his shoulders. “After Kirkwall I didn’t want to associate myself with it any longer,”

Robyn squinted as the sun’s rays streamed above the wooden walls. “The Inquisition is still part of the Chantry, though. Do you think everything will go back to how it was?”

Carver’s dark brows drew together in a frown. “I… don’t know. If it does, then there will just be another rebellion, but if we give mages more freedom, then we could be the next Tevinter,”

“I’m glad we don’t have to make that decision,” Robyn said to him, though she wondered if that were strictly true in her case.

“We’ll be the ones enforcing it, anyway,” Carver said bitterly. Another sharp gust of wind ruffled their hair and bit at their cheeks, making Carver grimace. “If this bloody weather doesn’t change, I hope I get assigned someplace else. I would take the damned Storm Coast over this,”

Robyn laughed, agreeing, but Carver still didn’t crack a smile. She craned her neck to look up at him, eyes stinging from the sun. “Why don’t you ask to be moved?”

Carver looked down, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Scouts are still setting up camps and, uh, scouting, and so far only the Hinterlands camps have truly been established. I don’t know if I would want to spend all day collecting iron or hunting ram, to be honest,”

Robyn laughed again, “Neither would I, and I barely escaped being killed by bandits, too. And falling down a ravine,”

He grinned at her, amused. “I don’t know how you made it all the way to Redcliffe from Denerim on your own, if we’re being honest,”

“I don’t either,” Robyn sighed, “But it was… an experience, to say the least,” the lie tumbled from her mouth easily, like they were just having a friendly discussion about the weather. Another ringing of a bell echoed from the Chantry, which meant Robyn still had an hour to kill before meeting Josephine. “Um, do you know where to get some breakfast?”

Carver nodded, standing up, and pieces of plate armour scraped against each other. Robyn had trouble keeping up with his long strides as he made his way through the gates and into the village, and she almost slipped a few times on the icy steps. The bright sun danced off his greatsword and armour, like he was a beacon amongst the drab scout uniforms and stable hands. A man was dishing out more bowls of porridge and chunks of freshly-baked bread in one tent, and they both joined the queue to get their fill.

Robyn’s teeth began to chatter whilst they waited, yet she made an effort to strike up another conversation with him. “What have you got planned for the rest of the day, then?” she asked.

“Not much. Just training recruits and running a few errands for the Commander. You?”

“I’m meeting with Josephine to see what kind of work I can do, but other than that? I don’t know,”

They stepped forwards with their bowls and dollops of sticky porridge were spooned into them. The smell was thick and warm, and they both snatched up pieces of bread fresh from the oven. They sat down on a low stone wall and began eating. Even through Robyn’s many layers of clothing, the icy cold still seeped through and chilled her to the bone.

“What made you join the Inquisition?” Carver asked. He spooned some porridge into his mouth and looked at her, his blue eyes curious. Robyn quickly swallowed her mouthful and coughed slightly when it burned down her throat.

_What do I tell him? Oh, I was sent here against my will and the only way for me to return to my world is to betray everyone and be a double agent?_

“I, uh, couldn’t sit idly by while there is a tear in the sky,” she said quietly. She licked some stray oats from her chapped lips. “I don’t know how to fight, but I can do other things… hopefully,”

Carver nodded, looking like he was satisfied with her answer, and continued eating in silence. The green sickly light of the Breach loomed in the sky like a foreboding storm cloud, twisting and spiralling against the wind. Now and again a flash of lightning would crackle, and huge boulders drifting in the unnatural winds would threaten to fall from the sky. At the top, where the tear ripped the Heavens, was nothing. Robyn’s breathing had deepened as she gazed at the monstrosity, and the shakes that plagued her hands were not entirely due to the cold weather. Beside her, Carver sat his empty bowl down on the floor and sighed, like he was going to say something.

“When I first saw the Breach, all I could think of was the Kirkwall chantry exploding,” he said slowly, and his lips held the small, bitter smile of someone very tired of reliving a particular moment. “The green makes it seem different, though, like it’s meant to heal, rather than destroy. The explosion in Kirkwall was red, like blood,” he said softly, and his eyes were distant. “Maker, I don’t even know what I’m talking about,” he huffed.

Robyn swallowed. “Maybe the Breach will finally force Thedas to get its shit together, then,” she offered weakly, making Carver snort.

“I hope so, after all the trouble it’s caused,” he added. He looked wistfully at the Breach. “Maybe it is a sign from the Maker, as they say, that He is finally coming back to fix things. Maybe Thyra is the Herald of Andraste after all.”

_I’m like, ninety-nine percent certain the Organisation didn’t cause the Breach from the sound of their letters, but sure, why not?_

“You were sceptical?” Robyn closed one eye so the glare of the sun wasn’t so harsh. Carver shrugged.

“I’ve never been the firmest believer in the Maker or Andraste, maybe because I was tired of having it shoved down my throat all the time,” he replied.  He shook his shoulders again, lost in memory.

“I know what you mean,” Robyn agreed, and she took another bite of bread. It was dry and gritty, nothing like the loaves she would buy at the supermarket in their plastic wrappings.

“I had a friend once who was a blood mage. She didn’t believe in the Maker either, and although she was the very thing the Chantry hated, she was the kindest, sweetest person I ever knew,” Carver continued nostalgically, and the touch of a genuine smile graced his face. Robyn couldn’t help smiling either, as she knew he was talking about Meryl… or was it Merrill?

“What happened to her?” the journals didn’t detail anything before or after the Kirkwall explosion, which she’d had to learn from Varric the night before.

“We… just lost touch, after everything that happened. Varric tells me that her and two of her other friends are helping to relocate refugees, amongst… other things,” he explained. He suddenly straightened his back and grinned. “You know, this is probably the longest conversation I’ve ever had without my brother being mentioned,”

“Really? He hadn’t crossed my mind,” Robyn said nonchalantly, though she had thought about Carver and Garret and Bethany and Malcolm and Leandra and even Stanley all throughout the night, looking at their grainy faces on the small photograph.

“That’s a first,” Carver murmured. “Varric claims he doesn’t know where he is, but I don’t believe him. I’m not sure if I want to know, though. The last I heard he was hunting renegade Templars with Anders in the Free Marches,”

“Anders is still alive?”

“Yeah,” Carver replied, though it strangely held no malice. “It’s complicated. When the explosion happened… Anders said it wasn’t him, but of course no one _really_ believed him, what with Justice and all that, but it sure didn’t stop Sebastian bloody Vael declaring war on Kirkwall if Garret didn’t kill Anders,”

“That’s horrible,” Robyn muttered, “Even if Anders did do it, how could you ask your friend to murder their lover? That just sounds like plain vengeance and self-righteousness to me, not justice,”

“That’s exactly what my brother told him, and Merrill. And Varric. And Aveline. And Isabella. Fenris wouldn’t have cared, but he has a twisted sense of loyalty to my brother anyway,” Carver smiled. “After that, Sebastian left.”

“All that friendship, lost over one event?” Robyn pondered sadly. “I’m guessing Anders didn’t have a trial or anything,”

“No, after Meredith died the whole crew left Kirkwall as quickly as they could. They helped the mages and they paid the price,”

“But surely if even the Templar order went against Meredith in the end, that they couldn’t have been totally at fault for supporting the mages?”

“You could say that, but people hardly cared about what happened in the Gallows before or after the whole disaster. They only cared when the mages became abominations in the marketplace and almost destroyed Lowtown. After Kirkwall though… I can see why mages would want their freedom, and why they should be locked up. I used to be rather, uh, severe, in regards to mages, just because I didn’t want to catch the attention of the Templars, but now I’m not so sure,” he said.

“Is that why you joined the Order?” Robyn asked quietly. Anger flashed briefly in Carver’s eyes, making Robyn pause, but he closed them and only sighed.

“I joined because it was my only option. My brother was off Maker knows where and we were running out of money. I still couldn’t join the guard, and I didn’t want to sell my body as a mercenary, so I joined the Order instead. Now I can see it was no different,” he scoffed bitterly. He ripped off a bite of bread with his teeth and chewed violently, seething in his anger. It was no wonder that Varric babied him.

“I would’ve done the same,” Robyn tried to placate him. Carver eyed her suspiciously.

“Huh, there’s another first,”

Robyn got the distinct feeling that Carver had been alone for a very, very long time. The Chantry bell chimed again and Robyn stood up. “It was nice speaking with you again,” she said. Carver nodded but didn’t comment. Robyn sighed and bid him goodbye, then returned her bowl and spoon to another tent and left for the Chantry. Frost crunched beneath her feet and the wind started to pick up again, making her cloak billow out behind her. Robyn looked back before entering the Chantry, and saw that Carver was still sitting on the low stone wall, empty bowl in his large hands, alone.

* * *

 

Sometime later, Josephine led Robyn into the underbelly of the main building. It was dank, cold and dark; the ominous splashing of droplets onto the uneven stone floor prickled at her neck, and the only light came from sconces Josephine lit as they passed. Eventually they reached a small room with a few bookshelves, and the eerie echoing of their footsteps ceased. Josephine cleared her throat.

“It’s not… nice work, but it must be done. We are just looking for anything that could help us understand the Breach,” she said softly. Robyn nodded, and didn’t even try to fight the disappointment that welled in her chest.

“I understand,” she replied, “Though, wouldn’t most of these documents just be Chantry records or history?”

Josephine smiled weakly. “Yes, but you never know what you may find, especially in a Chantry such as Haven’s. The cultists may have hoarded ancient records more so than their, ah, traditional counterparts,”

The ambassador lit a brazier in the corner, making orange light dance in cracks of the walls and illuminate the cobwebs that swayed in the draught. It allowed some warmth to overtake the bitter coldness that seemed to haunt the village, allowing Robyn to take down her hood.

“We’ve already looked through those books,” Josephine pointed to a pile of tomes sitting on the only desk.

“Did you find anything?” Robyn asked. Josephine shook her head.

“If you could look through this shelf-” Josephine indicated the one in question, “That would be very helpful. When you break for lunch another Sister will come and take over,”

“Understood,” Robyn peeled off her gloves and sat them on the dusty desk.

“If you need anything I will be in my office,” said Josephine, though she had already started walking back to the main level. The candle on her medieval clipboard flickered as the draught picked up once more, then the Ambassador disappeared from view. Perhaps people from Thedas were more used to working in dark, cold, silent and musty rooms than their Earthen counterparts, as Robyn felt fingers of dread reach from her stomach up to her throat at the prospect. The Organisation’s warning ran true, however, and she quickly pulled a large leather volume from the shelf and sat herself down rather eagerly.

To someone unused to reading ordinary handwriting other than her own, and not elegant, complex writing at that, Robyn found it very difficult to decipher single letters, much less words and phrases. The parchment felt stiff and breakable beneath her filthy fingertips, so she had to take more care flicking through pages than she usually would. One upside was that there weren’t as many words on each page like there would be on a book from a printing press, so Robyn made quick work of the first one, finding nothing useful.

Reading by weak candlelight was also rather tiresome, especially since her eyes began to hurt after just two books. She briefly wondered whether it was worth it to reach inside her cloak and read by her phone’s torchlight, yet decided against it when another Sister ventured down to find a barrel of salted meat. The books were mind-numbingly boring, too, and Robyn decided that Chantry history was perhaps the dullest in all of Thedas. Yawning, Robyn closed the third book and rubbed her eyes, and her head fizzled when bright colours flickered across the inside of her eyelids.

“Robyn? Are you there?” Thyra’s sharp, noble voice filtered through the empty halls.

“Yeah, right at the end,” Robyn called back. Their voices sounded terribly loud in the silence, like gods calling down from the mountains. Footsteps, quieter than Josephine’s, echoed across the flagstones. Torchlight glinted off Thyra’s scout armour as she appeared at the end of the hallway, and her hair was askew like she had been caught in a hurricane. The noblewoman appeared in the doorway, lazily leaned against it, and Robyn saw that she had a shiny red apple in her hand, another held in her mouth. She threw the apple and it soared over a stack of books into Robyn’s outstretched hands.

“Thanks,” Robyn said, and she sunk her teeth into its crisp skin. It was sweet and crunchy, making Robyn wonder where in Thedas Thyra had procured them.

“Thought you could use with a bit of freshness amongst all these dusty relics,” Thyra explained over a mouthful of apple. She ran a gloved finger over a maroon leather cover, collecting grey dust on her fingertip.

“I appreciate the thought,” and Robyn did very much, smiling as the sugary apple juice ran over her tongue. “Where did you get them? Haven doesn’t seem to be the optimum climate for apple trees,”

“That would be revealing information only I must know,” Thyra said lowly, eyebrow raised, and Robyn rolled her eyes. At that moment, the unmistakeable silhouette of Varric appeared in the doorway, Bianca strapped to his back, and with an apple in hand that matched his red tunic.

“What she means is ‘a new shipment of supplies came in today and the cook let me have first pick’,” Varric clarified cheekily. He strode into the small room confidently and wrinkled his nose. “It smells like a hoarding archivist died in here,” he drawled disdainfully.

“Yes, and I’ve been here for the past few hours,” Robyn lamented.

“Looks… fun?” Thyra offered. Robyn raised an eyebrow.

“It’s very… educational,” Robyn said. “Actually, no it isn’t. I lied,”

“If we’re being honest, I’m not entirely sure what the ‘Advisors’ want to find in here,” Varric’s eyes scanned the half-filled shelves. “Even Chuckles said that the magic of the Breach is something never seen before,”

“From what I’ve read so far I’m inclined to agree,” Robyn stood up and stretched her arms, groaning.

“Come on, I think you need a break and some food,” Varric dipped his head towards the entrance. Robyn yawned and nodded.

“Yeah, I probably do,”

As the trio left the underground passageways, Robyn wasn’t sad to leave the place. It may have been sheltered from the harsh Haven wind she was ever so fond of, but it was also very lonely. And dark. Not the good kind of dark, like in a cosy bedroom on a winter’s night, but like cave and tunnel dark, which Robyn thought were two very different things.

They stopped by the Ambassador’s office to let her know that nothing had been found, and Josephine thanked her for the work. By the way her forehead creased slightly, Robyn could tell that the Inquisition were no closer to understanding the Breach than when they had first encountered it. Rolling her shoulders, Robyn slipped on Thyra’s gloves once more and they left the Chantry and all its warmth, yet its unsettling religious aura wasn’t missed by either of the three companions.

* * *

 

The Singing Maiden was busy at lunchtime once they arrived, yet Varric somehow charmed the barmaid into giving the three a table all to themselves. Some soldiers were already very merry from their ale, a bard was plucking notes in the corner and singing softly, and Varric and Thyra were already bantering between them like they had been friends for decades. “So, Birdy,” Varric began.

“Birdy?”

“Little Bird was too much of a mouthful,” Varric shrugged his shoulders. Robyn could settle for a singer’s name rather than the whole creepy Sansa Stark-Sandor Clegane debacle, so she only nodded, and the dwarf continued.

“Did you see Junior today?” he asked. Robyn smiled; no matter how nonchalant the dwarf appeared to be, he still cared deeply for those close to him, even if they were annoying like the youngest Hawke.

“Yes, I saw him training this morning and we had breakfast together,”

“Was he winning?” he asked, sipping on ale.

“Yes. He was the best fighter out there, he’s… brilliant, actually,” Robyn laughed at the end. She tightened her grip on her mulled wine, eager to warm her hands. Varric smiled.

“The kid’s a little shit, but at least he fights well. It’s the only thing he’s really worked hard at,” he said.

“You do get that… air about him, don’t you?” Thyra agreed.

“He’s been bitter all his life. Over-achieving siblings are not something to be underestimated,” Varric gulped some ale down and set his empty mug on the table.

“Maybe he’ll find a place in the Inquisition,” Robyn shrugged, “From the sound of things he certainly didn’t find one with the Templars,”

“Well, from the sound of things, I don’t think even Curly found one either,” Varric added.

“Maybe it was for the best that the Order crumbled,” Thyra said quietly, Robyn silently agreeing. “Although I wonder how they’re going to cope when the Chantry controls the lyrium,”

“Lyrium? I thought only mages took it,” Robyn asked, confused.

“Templars take it to, uh, enhance their abilities,” Varric explained, “Whether that’s true or not, only the Chantry knows. It’s highly addictive, and almost every Templar that comes off it dies, and what that means is that-”

“The Chantry controls the lyrium, and therefore the Templars,” Robyn interrupted, realisation dawning, and she looked at her friends in horror.

“I wouldn’t worry for Junior though, we have Nightingale for all that illegal lyrium,” Varric winked. Thyra smirked and leaned back in her chair, resting a booted foot on the table, totally at ease.

“But even if they don’t come off it, they still become addled and confused later on in life until they can’t remember anything except the need for lyrium,” Thyra said slowly. “I had an uncle like that, you know? Couldn’t remember who I was for the life of him…” She trailed off, smiling. Robyn swallowed thickly. “Perhaps it was for the best,” Thyra shook out her shoulders, “After all, he loved the Maker more than anything, and if he found out that his little niece had rolled around with a recruit in the stables before marriage, I dread to think what sort of Templar ‘abilities’ he would demonstrate,”

Varric laughed. “Thankfully they only work on mages. To my knowledge, anyway,”

“Well, there’s always a first,” Robyn said, gulping some wine down. Companionable silence followed, and Robyn listened to the joyful laughter of the tavern and breathed in the smell of wood burning in the fireplace. Thyra shot a look to Varric who tried his best not to reciprocate, but Robyn caught it. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Me, Varric, Cassandra and Solas are leaving,” Thyra said suddenly, making Robyn splutter on her wine. “Not forever!” she added quickly, “Just to Val Royeaux for a week or so. We need to sort out this blasted Chantry business,”

Robyn set her cup down slowly. “Well, uh….” She looked at them, “I’ve heard it’s lovely this time of year,”

Varric grinned then slapped her on the back. “See, I told you she’s a big girl. Birdy here will just have to put up with Junior’s brooding and tantrums for a week or so,”

Robyn rolled her eyes, smirking. “And I’m guessing you’re going by boat, too,”

Thyra nodded. “If they asked me to walk to Val Royeaux I would throw myself off the Chantry bell tower,” she joked venomously. “I’m not some bloody pilgrim,”

“Do pilgrims go to Val Royeaux?” Robyn wondered aloud.

“Maybe… fashionable pilgrims,” Varric answered. Thyra snorted.

“Fashionable pilgrims?”

“Yeah!” he exclaimed, “You know, all those lords and ladies who want to see the finest Orlesian silks and lace…”

“Perhaps,” Thyra relented, shaking her head with laughter, “I would rather journey to Antiva City, and see the Crows,”

“If you can see the Crows in Antiva, they’re not doing their job properly,” Varric said smartly. The barmaid brought over another mug of ale for him to drink. “What about Denerim, Birdy? Can’t say I’ve ever been there,”

Robyn’s heart fluttered in her chest, but she smiled nonetheless, tapping the sides of her wine with her fingernails. “Gotta be honest, it’s a bit of a shithole,”

“Birdy, I come from Kirkwall, the shittiest shithole in this shithole we call Thedas,” Varric scoffed. “I bet Denerim is the Golden City compared to my hometown,”

“After the Blight, King Alistair and the queen have improved things greatly,” Robyn offered, “So yes, Denerim could be worse. And what about Ostwick?”

“Boring,” Thyra replied sharply, smirking, “Nothing ever happens there. Just lots of nobles hosting tea parties. I suppose in the main city there are a few muggings and murders, but nothing fantastical,”

“It seems Kirkwall took all of the crazy in the Free Marches,” Robyn said, making Varric laugh.

“And I wouldn’t have it any other way,” he said affectionately, grinning ear to ear.

* * *

 

Later on in the day, Robyn returned to the Chantry to finish the third book, which also yielded fruitless results. Josephine looked rather exasperated once Robyn told her the news, but she thanked Robyn once more and dismissed her for the day. The four heading to the Orlesian capital were meeting in the Herald’s cabin to discuss their journey, leaving Robyn to either sit alone in the tavern or to seek out Carver once more. She worried about her belongings sitting under her bed, and hoped that none of her friends would spot a bag strap or shoelace poking out from under the bedding.

The wind whistled through the trees and buildings of the village; night was falling quickly, bringing an even colder temperature with it. It would be odd sleeping alone again, since Robyn had become accustomed to Thyra’s soft snores and even Solas’ quiet presence whilst he took watch. Funny to think that she would miss it when she had slept alone for the vast majority of her life.

Her feet moved across the icy paths of Haven almost of their own accord, and Robyn suddenly found herself standing by the window of the tavern. Golden light streamed through the square holes in the wooden planks, bringing drunken, slurred singing with it. Robyn turned her head, swallowing, and she saw Commander Cullen hurrying up some steps to the chantry, his breath escaping his scarred mouth in short grey clouds. To her surprise, the hulking figure of Carver followed him in the same urgent manner. In the poor light Robyn couldn’t see his face, but his armour shined in the torchlight, and Robyn wondered if he ever took it off.

Somehow her numb foot moved forward as if to trail after them, but her arm was grasped suddenly in a strong grip. Robyn’s heart stopped in her chest and she was about to scream when the figure hushed her. “Eluvia,” they said gruffly, and Robyn stopped struggling. She closed her eyes in resignation.

“Yes?” she asked weakly, barely audible against the wind. A crumpled piece of paper was pushed into her gloved hand. It crackled in her palm.

“A message,”

Robyn didn’t turn around. She neither saw nor heard the messenger’s exit, but she knew she had been left alone. She slipped the missive inside a pocket in her breeches. When she looked up once more, and the huge moon and its smaller sister appeared behind dark clouds, she just about caught the chantry doors closing with a low creak, and Haven was strangely silent.

* * *

 

_ELUVIA,_

_SISTER NIGHTINGALE HAS MADE DISCREET INQUIRIES ABOUT YOUR ORIGINS. WE HAVE HAD MUCH PRACTICE WITH THESE SITUATIONS OVER THE YEARS, AND THUS NEITHER HER AGENTS NOR SHE HAVE FOUND ANYTHING UNUSUAL._

_YOUR STORY IS AS FOLLOWS:_

_YOU ARE ROBYN SMITH. YOUR PARENTS ARE CARVELL AND ANNA SMITH. CARVELL WAS A SAILOR WHO WENT MISSING AT SEA. YOUR MOTHER DIED OF ILLNESS WHEN YOU MATURED AS A WOMAN. YOU MOVED AROUND FREQUENTLY DUE TO YOUR FATHER’S OCCUPATION, HENCE WHY THERE ARE SCATTERED ACCOUNTS OF YOUR EXISTENCE. YOU WERE BORN IN DENERIM AND AFTER YOUR MOTHER’S DEATH YOU SETTLED THERE AS AN ASSISTANT TO AN ACCOUNTANT._

_YOU LEFT THE CITY WHEN YOU REMEMBERED THAT YOUR FATHER SAID YOUR GRANDPARENTS LIVED IN REDCLIFFE. YOU DON’T KNOW THEIR NAMES, BUT AN ELDERLY COUPLE WITH THE SURNAME ‘GAWNE’ WERE FOUND MURDERED IN THEIR HOME DURING THE FIGHTING. WE HAVE SAID THAT YOUR MOTHER’S MAIDEN NAME WAS GAWNE._

_YOU HAVE NO SIBLINGS AND NO OTHER KNOWN RELATIVES._

_WE HOPE THAT THIS INFORMATION WILL NEVER BE NEEDED, YET OUR ORGANISATION IS BUILT ON INTRICATE STORIES AND FALSE TRUTHS, WHICH WE MANIPULATE TO OUR ADVANTAGE, SO IT IS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY._

_REMEMBER OUR WARNINGS. REMEMBER THAT THE FURTHER YOU CLIMB UP THE INQUISITION, THE FURTHER YOU’LL FALL._

_-ARTIFEX_

* * *

 

Thyra and her company left for the Orlesian capital the following dawn. They were seen off with little ceremony; Robyn watched with the advisors and waved as they left down the winding path that cut through the mountain, then they disappeared from view. Cullen heaved a heavy sigh once they were gone, and left quickly to return to training his new recruits. Josephine closed her eyes for a moment longer than necessary, her face slightly pained, and then she too slipped on her collected mask as she went back to her office. Sister Nightingale, or Leliana, was impassive. She only blinked and went back to her tent, silently.

Robyn sighed, closing her eyes. When she had awoken that morning she had felt terribly sick, and her cheeks were still crusty from when she had cried the night before. The ashes of the message were sprinkled amongst those of the fire, where, wrapped in Thyra’s thick quilt with her knees drawn to her chest, she had gazed into all night until it died. Her body felt weary, like she had run the London marathon whilst dragging a ship behind her. Her eyes were tired. Her lips were tired. Her legs were tired. Her soul was tired.  

She looked up the trail towards the village, seeing Carver watching her with a nose tipped with red. In his hands was a rosy crimson apple, the pale flesh of the fruit as bright as snow where he had bitten into the skin, and his eyes didn’t leave her even when Robyn returned his gaze defiantly. A small tilt of his head, the most insignificant of nods, a tugging at the corner of his chapped lips-

Robyn smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long. I had my last exam last Monday and I was really stuck with this chapter, but now it's out and I can breathe (unless if it's really bad). I'm away on holiday all next week so I doubt I will have the next chapter out for another fortnight or so, sorry.  
> Was it good? Bad? Boring?  
> Do the characters seem off? For a main character in DA2 Carver doesn't appear much since he pretty much disappears for two acts (or three lmao) so I'm still trying to figure him out. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it!


	5. ghosts

_BLOOMINGTIDE, 9:22 DRAGON// MAY 12 TH 1998_

_SOMETIMES THIS WORK HAUNTS ME. I’M FASCINATED BY CHANGE- THE SMALLEST ACTION, THE SIMPLEST OF MISTAKES, AND THE COURSE OF HISTORY IS FOREVER ALTERED. SOMETIMES I HAVE TO KILL PEOPLE. SOMETIMES I ORDER SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT._

_IT GETS EASIER AS TIME GOES ON. I’M NOT NECESSARILY AFFECTED BY MY HAND IN MURDER, IT SEEMS TO BE THOSE WHOM I FAILED THAT VISIT ME IN MY DREAMS. WITH NO CONNECTION TO THE FADE, IT SEEMS AS THOUGH IT’S MY OWN BRAIN THAT TORMENTS ME WITH GHOSTS OF THE PAST. I’M NOT SURE WHETHER THAT’S BETTER OR WORSE._

_I HOPE OLIVER IS WELL. I HAVEN’T SEEN HIM IN A WHILE._

_IN OTHER NEWS, THE CONSIPRACY TO MURDER THE DIVINE WAS FOILED, AS PLANNED. MY SUPERIORS WILL BE PLEASED. THEY’VE MADE THE YOUNG SEEKER, PENTAGHAST, I THINK HER NAME IS, HAND OF THE DIVINE. I HOPE SHE ENJOYS HER NEW POSITION._

_I’LL BE LEAVING VAL ROYEAUX WITHIN THE NEXT FEW DAYS. I’M BEGINNING TO MISS MY CAT._

_-JUDEX_

_(scrawled at the bottom of the page is a caricature-like doodle of a tabby cat, labelled ‘Angus’)_

* * *

 

Thyra’s absence was, at once, extremely noticeable. Without the Herald, or indeed Varric, it seemed as though Robyn’s group of friends had halved, if she could even claim to be that close to them. The only other people she’d even had conversations with were Carver and Josephine; one was her literal boss, so she wasn’t sure if the Ambassador was her ‘friend’, and the other was so hot and cold that Robyn wondered if it was actually worth the effort to reach out to him.

Robyn sighed, and watched her breath ghost in front of her in a puff. Being bitterly cold all the time was one of the many downsides of Haven (or perhaps of Thedas generally), so she had practically stolen Thyra’s spare pair of gloves as a result, and she was _not_ giving them up any time soon. Currently, a scrunched up piece of yellowing parchment was nestled in her palm- a note from Thyra, detailing a few errands the Herald herself didn’t have time for.

One of those was to find medical notes written by Taigen, the apothecary who died at the Conclave. His apprentice, Aden, had asked Thyra to retrieve them, but she had neither the time (nor the inclination, Robyn suspected) to carry out the task. To be fair, Robyn didn’t exactly mind venturing a little further than the small mountain path, which had seemed to be some sort of boundary until this point. However, memories of her run-in with the bandits in the Hinterlands made her quite apprehensive of leaving the relative safety and normalcy of the village, no matter how much she wanted to see more of the area.

She kept dithering for a few minutes, indecisive, before half-forming some sort of plan. She tugged on her cloak and stood up, brushed her clothes down, then left the slightly-warmer cabin. Robyn was still unused to the cold, which was pretty much all she’d thought about in the past day or two. That and the mysterious, shady Artifex and co. Along with death, too, lots and lots of death, perhaps intermingled with visions of her corpse being shipped back to London, or a letter falling through her parent’s letterbox stating that she was missing abroad, saying that she _had been very involved in her work investigating the corrupt systems, and we hope that she contacts us soon._ Eventually she would be assumed dead, and condolences like _she died doing what she loved, she was an intelligent, noble woman,_ would be exchanged, and cards with cute, cartoon animals holding pastel-coloured balloons would sit next to vases of wilting flowers.

Robyn shook her head to vanish those thoughts. They plagued her constantly, but she had no tears left to cry. She was determined to see this through; whether it took a month or a year or a decade, she _would_ return home to her family and friends and job. She would hug them all and say that she loved them all very, very much, and she would have a shower and eat a Chinese takeaway and go to bed with clean sheets and pyjamas warm from the tumble dryer-

“Shit!” Robyn cursed, just as she tripped over a slightly elevated flagstone and very nearly fell down a staircase headfirst. A woman mending socks tutted her with a disapproving glance. Robyn apologised quietly, cheeks burning with embarrassment as well as the cold. Thankfully, Josephine didn’t need her anymore that day, and a small part of herself hoped that they’d given up on the Chantry books. Okay, so maybe that was quite a large part of herself.

She made her way down the final staircase, careful of her footing this time, and left the village. Cullen was still shouting at the recruits, making Robyn wonder how he never lost his voice, or will to live, judging by their skill. Carver was easy to spot in the crowd that never left the gates, and she started to make her way over to him. The Hawke brother stood by a group of slightly more experienced recruits who were running through forms and drills. His arms were crossed, which Robyn thought was quite a feat considering his armour, and his blue eyes were focused and calculating. She wandered to the space next to him, smiling.

“Do you remember training like this?” she asked, squinting. Carver frowned slightly.

“No… I trained alone, for the most part,” he said slowly. He straightened his back. “We moved around a lot, and I never really had the chance to train in a group,” he turned his head away from the recruits and looked at the floor. “I used to watch the Templars train whenever I could, and do my damnedest to copy them,”

“Did it work?”

“Like shit it did,” he said quickly, making Robyn laugh. Another smile tugged at his lips, then he cleared his throat and looked at the soldiers again. “It wasn’t until I joined the army that I got proper training. My brother tried to join too, not as a mage but as a soldier, but he’d had even less weaponry training than I did, and Bethy told him that it was the worst idea she’d ever heard. Of course, she also said that _me_ joining was the worst idea that she’d ever heard…” Carver’s voice got quieter towards the end, and his eyes grew distant, remembering the half of his soul that was no longer there.

“She… haunts you,” Robyn stated. Carver’s eyes flashed with seething anger, like Robyn had broken down his castle walls and hoisted her own flag above his keep. He swallowed.

“Yes,” he said hoarsely. Robyn could see the sun glistening off unshed tears in his eyes. He coughed loudly. “Is there something you wanted?” he snapped. Robyn bristled, then took out Thyra’s list from her cloak.

“Thyra wants me to find some medical notes in Taigen’s old hut north of Haven,” she explained. Carver raised an eyebrow.

“And I take it you’re scared of all the big bad wolves?”

Robyn rolled her eyes. “I’ll have you know that I had a _very_ traumatic run in with bandits before the Inquisition scouts rescued me,” she shot back. For a split second, Carver blanched, and his spiteful façade melted.

“They- didn’t hurt you, did they?” he asked. Robyn’s frown faltered for a moment.

“No… I was fine,” she replied slowly, unsure of where this conversation was headed, though it was a pleasant turn of events.

“Good,” Carver seemed relieved at her answer. For a moment or two there was a somewhat awkward, stilted silence, where Robyn didn’t know how to proceed ( _should I thank him for his concern, or is that just human decency?),_ and Carver seemed to be still deciding whether to accompany her or not. “Alright,” he finally agreed, “I’ll come with you,”

Robyn nodded. “Okay, well… we can go now, if you like? Get it out of the way?”

“Yeah, but we’d better leave before Cullen ropes me into helping the others train,” Carver grumbled.

“Is it that bad?” Robyn asked. Carver started off down the eastward path, and she once more had to practically jog to keep up with his large strides.

“It gets tedious after a while,” he explained, “I suppose being specialised in two-handed weaponry is a blessing and a curse. I’m really the only one who can train them if they want to give it a go, but usually they do one session and give up,”

“Well…  that’s just a testament to your skill and willpower, evidently,” Robyn offered. Carver swung around with a questioning look of pure surprise across his face, and Robyn thought she’d offended him as he seemed to interpret everything as a joke at his expense, but he grinned widely, proud.

“Um- thanks,” he tripped over his tongue for a moment and Robyn smiled.

“Do people not… compliment you very often?” she wondered, making him snort, and that happy mood seemed to fizzle out abruptly.

“No, they don’t,” he answered, and Robyn felt a rush of pity for him. Growing up she had never felt unloved or unwanted; when she accomplished something she was praised, whether by family, teachers, friends, or strangers. Carver had been starved of that, from the looks of things, leaving him insecure and with a low self-esteem. The weird thing, however, was that he _knew_ he was skilled and _deserved_ praise, leaving him extremely bitter, too. As Robyn watched the back of his head, thinking, they came across a fork in the road and he turned left, where the snowbanks on the sides of the path looked to grow higher and higher. Ice had frozen over the dirt path, making their going slightly precarious.

The duo followed the path a while longer, and the distant shouts and strikes of metal seemed to lull, until the forest was eerily silent. It was as if everything had been glazed in glass, where crystals hung from branches like chandeliers, and pristine snow looked to be a thick, fluffy rug in a grand dining hall. Robyn breathed in the crisp, clean air, spluttering slightly, because she _still_ wasn’t used to the overabundance of oxygen. Whilst she was admiring the scenery, her foot suddenly slipped on a particularly icy patch of dirt and the world spun as she fell backwards sharply, and for a short moment she thought Carver would reach out and catch her.

Alas, ‘twas not to be.

She fell flat on her ass, and the ground knocked the air out of her lungs, making her gasp. Immediately her backside started to ache deeply, and Robyn knew that her leggings would now have a damp patch. Opening her eyes, she blinked in the bright light, and was met with Carver’s shocked face. They both stared at each other for a moment, silently, before he burst into a fit of laughter. He laughed and laughed and laughed, still making no move to help her up, and Robyn scowled at him. His face turned bright red, tears began leaking from his eyes, and he clutched at his stomach desperately as he gasped for air. “This isn’t funny,” Robyn snapped. She sat up, rubbing at her neck, wincing.

“It- kind- of is,” he choked out. Robyn’s scowl deepened. She kicked her foot out, trying to ignore the shock of pain that lanced up her spine, and caught his foot with her own. She knew she wasn’t strong enough to knock him off balance, but she was counting on the icy road and his heavy armour to-

He cursed loudly as he fell backwards into the snowdrift. Robyn snorted at the look of surprise that crossed his features, where his eyes almost bulged out of their sockets, and then he was swallowed by snow. It was now her turn to laugh maniacally, especially once he started to sputter and swear. Robyn clambered to her feet, still laughing, and wiped her leggings and sopping wet cloak down. “Have a taste of your own medicine, bitch!” she shouted at him.

“Did- did you just call me a _bitch_?” he asked half-sarcastically, half-disbelieving. He heaved himself up with surprising grace, snow sliding down the plates of his armour. He shook out crystals from his hair and groaned. “It went down my _neck,”_

“What a shame,” Robyn drawled. He narrowed his eyes at her, then reached down slowly, gathering snow in his hand. Robyn’s eyes widened. “No… no!”

He grinned wickedly, eyes flashing, and she turned to run back down the path. Running into the snowdrifts kind of defied the point of staying away from the snow, so she really had no choice, even if she risked breaking her back by falling over again. Carver moved faster across the ice, unfortunately, and she felt her cloak and tunic being lifted away from the back of her neck and then the freezing clump of snow dropped into the space. Branches of cold reached down her back to her hips and she shrieked, making Carver laugh again.

“J-jokes on you,” Robyn stuttered through chattering teeth. She turned to face the culprit, shaking her body to try and make the rest of the snow fall out. “That was r-rather soothing for my p-poor back, actually,”

“Glad to be of service, my lady,” he dropped into a mocking bow, “Shall we continue?”

Robyn tossed her hair and swept, well, hobbled, past him. She heard him chuckle behind her, but a poisonous glance thrown his way silenced him. Her back ached and her ass throbbed painfully with each step, but Robyn only bit her lip and carried on, eager to get out of the damned cold. After what seemed like hours, they glimpsed the wooden hut amongst the trees and snow.

Carver slammed his shoulder into the door a few times, as its hinges had frozen since the Conclave. The door swung open and a small shower of snow fell from the doorframe. Carver drew his sword, and it scraped against his armour. Robyn held her breath. He crept into the room, looking around corners and checking under tables, before he gestured Robyn to follow. His sword returned to its place on its back.

Searching for the notes didn’t take very long, and Robyn wondered if they were truly needed, but she stashed them in her pack nonetheless. Carver looked around the small hut, probably to see if there was any food or drink. A drawer screeched painfully when she opened it, then she rummaged inside to see if there was anything of use. Records of herb shipments, dates and patients were all that seemed to be in there, but her fingers brushed against something which felt… more synthetic. She brushed the other useless bits of parchment aside, and there, nestled at the bottom, was a crappy Poundland notebook.

Robyn let out a small noise of confusion. “Is everything alright?” Carver asked suddenly, and Robyn jumped.

“Oh! Yeah, yeah, everything’s fine…” she turned her head and smiled at him. He nodded and went back to studying the bottle of alcohol in his hands, and Robyn sighed in relief. She quickly picked up the notebook in shaking hands and stuffed it into her pack.

“I’ve found-” Carver started. Robyn, once again, almost jumped a foot in the air in surprise. Carver snickered, obviously amused, but he carried on nonetheless. “I’ve found stuff for a poultice, if you want it for your back,”

Robyn twisted her body around. “Um, thanks.” He held out the pestle, mortar, elfroot and other herbs for her to take. Robyn set them down on the creaky, dusty desk, not knowing where to start. “Uh… I’ve never made one before,” she said sheepishly, and her voice cracked a bit.

“Never?” Carver asked in surprise.

“Yeah… we always bought them from the apothecary,” she lied. “So I never had the chance, I guess,”

“I’ll show you then,”

He began to demonstrate the rather simple process of crushing the elfroot with the pestle, then adding the distillation agent in stages. He laughed when she struggled to mix and crush the herbs and agent together, so Robyn snapped that ‘not everyone could have the upper body strength of a bear’, and he smiled and took over again. Once the poultice was ready, she lifted up the end of her shirt, rested her elbow on the desk, and slathered it across her lower back. Instantly, the ache began to subside, and the coolness of the elfroot seeped across her skin.

“Better?” Carver asked.

“Yeah,” Robyn answered. She wiped her hand on a nearby blanket and her elbow joined the other on the desk. She rested her head in her hands and sighed.

“You know, this was definitely _not_ how I imagined you bent over a desk,” Carver quipped, and Robyn suddenly sputtered.

“Excuse me?” Robyn exclaimed, “You can’t just say that to women… or anyone!”

“Ever heard of flirting?” he asked sarcastically. Robyn looked up to see him casually leaning against a doorframe.

“Yes, I have, but that’s just a bit…”

“What?” he snapped a bit too harshly, raising an eyebrow.

“Look, I don’t know if that’s how you get women or anyone into your bed, but that just makes people like me… uncomfortable,” she said slowly. Robyn heard him huff in frustration, but there was no way she would be putting up with comments like that. “ _Especially_ when women are subjected to harassment every single day since they start puberty. What you think is playful flirting sounds eerily like the catcalls you get on the streets, where all you get is ‘Hey, nice tits!’, or they describe how they’re going to fuck you in explicit detail,”

“I didn’t mean it like that-”

“I know you didn’t,” Robyn sighed. Her head was beginning to pound. “But it sounded like it to me, and it’s not your place to dictate how I should react,”

Carver looked away, anger brewing on his face. “I’m sorry for offending you,” he said quietly. “You’re not the brusque farm girls I’m used to,”

Robyn rolled her eyes, and rubbed at her temples to ease her growing headache. “That’s not fair. You shouldn’t lump women together like that, and it sure as hell doesn’t excuse what you said,”

“You’re so bloody… _difficult,_ ” Carver groaned. He stood up properly now, drawing to his full height, and dragged his hands down his face.

“Don’t make this my fault!” Robyn pointed a finger at him. “As if I’m the difficult one!”

“What?” he snapped. “I’m not difficult! I just wish everyone would stop treating me like a _fucking child_!”

He was closer now, Robyn saw, and she shook her head in amusement and disbelief. _Okay, so this petty argument is now going to turn into almost three decades’ worth of pent up anger being thrown about._ “Don’t tell me you don’t see it, Carver,” she said lowly. Robyn knew that she was shy and timid; she’d always been non-confrontational and always polite, but she had dealt with enough self-absorbed, privileged men in her life to be a force to be reckoned with in an argument. “You’re an adult on the battlefield for sure, but the way you speak to others and how you treat them is childish,” she continued, and she could see the anger simmering in his eyes, but this needed to be said. “You know how to take care of yourself and how to wield a sword and how to protect others, but that’s only half the battle. People respect your skills, Carver. They know your life definitely hasn’t been an easy one, and they admire you for coming this far, but the second you insult them, or brood or whine about everything, they don’t want to be around you, because you either annoy them or make them feel like _shit,_ ” Robyn ended with a defying stare. Carver was trembling and red in the face.

“You don’t know me,” he seethed. “You’re self-righteous, arrogant, distant, you act as if everyone and everything is below you, and I get the feeling you don’t even want to be here,”

“You’re right,” she said, “I’m a little bit out of my element here, to say the least,”

Carver sighed, then joined her by the desk to rest his elbows on the top as well. “This hasn’t been the first time all of my flaws have been pointed out to me,” he said grumpily, head in his hands.

Robyn’s headache didn’t cease; it seemed as though the man was adamant on playing the victim, here. “Carver… I’m not saying I hate or dislike you,” she looked to the side, him doing the same, and their eyes met. He looked rather sad, and Robyn wondered if her words had been too harsh. “I keep seeking you out because I like you- you’re good company when you’re not complaining or sulking, and I know that you’re a good person, and when it mattered most you did what was right. Varric said that you joined your brother against Meredith. Why?”

He inhaled sharply through his nose, and it looked as if there were tears in his eyes. “Ghosts,” he replied, “Ghosts of Bethy, ghosts of mother, ghosts of mages, ghosts of Lothering, of Ostagar, even… father,”

The poultice was heavy and cold on Robyn’s back. “And Garrett?”

Carver shrugged. “I suppose I did it for him, too,” he threaded his fingers through his hair and laughed. “I suppose no-one has ever really, uh, broken down my issues,” said Carver, “It’s always been either ‘you’re a little shit’ or ‘you’re so bloody annoying’,”

“Well, nothing’s going to change if people don’t help you,” Robyn offered. “I just think you have always been expected to be a carbon-copy of your brother, and when people realised that you actually have to be your own person, it’s so institutionalised inside you that you feel insulted whenever people say you aren’t like your brother, because you think it means you aren’t good enough, even when it’s what you’ve wanted all along,”

He was silent for a few moments, his brow furrowed, like he’d just found the answer he’d been searching for. He looked at her and smiled weakly. “You read me like an open book, Robyn. Where’d you learn to do that?”

“I practiced,” she replied easily. _Practice as in forty thousand pounds in student loans and countless sleepless nights over essays and a dissertation._

“Andraste’s tits, you should be working for Nightingale,” Carver joked, “Though I suppose the Ambassador has to do that too, y’know, diplomatic relations and all that shit,”

“Nah, I couldn’t do that. Too many names to remember, too many people to insult,” Robyn said, shaking her head.  

“Maker, I’m… sorry, for what I said,” Carver’s jesting tone turned sombre.

“Sorry for the tasteless flirtatious comment or the insults about my personality?” Robyn teased.

“All of the above,” he replied, laughing again, “It seems that whenever I flirt with a pretty girl I always end up insulting them,”

A tinge of a blush appeared on Robyn’s cheeks and she laughed too. “Looks like you need a crash course in the art of wooing a lady. I accept your apology, but I’m sorry, too, some of the things I said were, um, unnecessarily mean,”

“Apology accepted,” Carver said quietly, and he regarded her with an odd gaze before standing up again. Robyn wondered if this was the first time anyone had apologised to him after a fight. He cleared his throat; “Though I think it was necessary… think of it as you offering helpful constructive criticism,” he said to her, smiling. He held out a hand, free of its gauntlet when he had helped with the poultice. Robyn took it and he gently pulled her up. His hand was large, his gloves a little cold, and he helped her wipe off the poultice with a rag.

They left the hut soon after, the wind having started to pick up in strength and speed. Neither wanted to be stranded in a little hut in a blizzard. Robyn was thoroughly amazed that she hadn’t fallen ill yet, but if the weather continued or worsened, she would certainly be in trouble. Thankfully, her back no longer throbbed with every step, otherwise she might not have made it back to the village. Carver asked how she was faring and she only complained of the cold, to which he snorted and agreed.

“I forgot to ask…” Robyn started, and a particularly powerful gust of wind prompted her to wrap her cloak tighter around her body. Carver tilted his head, indicating that he was listening. “Last night I saw you with Commander Cullen heading towards the Chantry, and you both looked a little worried. Is everything alright?”

The warrior heaved a sigh and looked away. “Just troubles in the Order, or what’s left of it. Renegade Templars are still running about like headless chickens and fucking things up. We’d hoped that they would join the Inquisition, since it’s _technically_ Chantry affiliated, but until Val Royeaux gets its shit together we’re all a bit stuck,” he answered bitterly. Snowflakes were beginning to fall from the overcast sky, and crackles of lightning snapped across the heavens from the Breach.

“Maybe it’s something else,” Robyn offered. “Seems to me that the majority of Templars wouldn’t just abandon the Order to kill mages, no matter how harsh they’re painted to be,”

“Maybe,” Carver pondered for a moment. “We should have the Commander and Sister Nightingale to look into it, you could be right,”

They walked in silence until they reached Haven’s heavy wooden gates. Snow was falling in earnest now, and the usually buzzy training ground was mostly empty. Some soldiers were huddling in the stables, leeching warmth off the blacksmith’s fire, but it looked as if most of them had retreated to their tents or into the village itself. Robyn invited Carver into her shared cabin and he hastily accepted, though it was odd to be alone with him for this length of time, when Thyra or Varric would’ve been there to tease him without guilt.

He went over to the fireplace by the far wall, reached for the tinderbox, and a fire which had taken Robyn almost half an hour to spark the previous night took only a few moments for Carver, and soon embers gave way to flames. He shrugged off his armour, fumbling with the straps and buckles with shivering hands, then placed them on a stand in the corner. Robyn kept her cloak on whilst she wriggled out of her boots, socks and leggings, then changed into clean ones. Water dripped off the plates of Carver’s armour and splashed onto the wooden floor.

She turned around to see him sitting morosely on the ratty rug on the floor, staring into the fire. Robyn took off her cloak and peeled off her outer tunic before joining him. She sat cross-legged, took off Thyra’s gloves, and held her hands up to warm them. Her companion remained silent. Idly, her eyes flickered to her rucksack’s hiding place under her bed, where the photo of Carver and his family rested. She wondered if he would appreciate it; would it be comforting to see his mother, father and twin sister again? Would he keep it, or would he turn it over to the Inquisition? Would he ask about the mechanics of the photo, or would he question Robyn about her uncle? Shaking her head to chase those thoughts away, Robyn cleared her throat quietly.

“Do you regret joining the Templars?” she asked, hoping to take her mind off that uncomfortable topic. The wood popped in the fire. A small ember was launched out of the flames and drifted down to the floor, where it left a small, black mark on the wooden panels.

“Yes,” he answered simply. He turned his head, firelight glinting off his eyes, basking his pale skin in a reddish, golden glow. “Do you regret coming here?”

_Here as in Haven, or here as in Thedas?_

“Yes,” she replied. Robyn swallowed uneasily. That was perhaps the most truthful answer she had given anyone since arriving in the strange world.

Carver pulled his knees up to his chest and hugged them. He closed his eyes. “For seven years I walked my own path, searching for independence and a reputation and a family name to call my own,” he paused for a moment, lost in memory. “And I’d never been so alone.”

Loneliness was something Robyn could relate to all too well. Not the absence of human contact, but the feeling of sitting with a group of friends and not feeling connected at all, like she was watching through a movie screen. She saw it in Thyra’s eyes when she held her hand that dreary night in the Hinterlands, she heard it in Varric’s voice when he spoke to her of Kirkwall in the tavern, she even felt it in Solas’ gaze when he watched her whilst they travelled, like they were both in a place in which they didn’t belong.

She felt it with Carver, most of all. His soul wasn’t crying out for help, nor were his eyes constantly glistening with tears nor his hands always trembling. Another lost soul, like her, with no compass pointing due north, lost in the vastness of the sea. “And you wonder if this is what death feels like,” she said quietly. Outside, the wind howled relentlessly.

“I should’ve died instead of Bethany,” Carver said miserably.

_I should never have sought out Harding._

She ached for her parents, for her friends, for her flat, for her bed, for her stars. “I’m not supposed to be here either,” Robyn murmured. “Maybe we’re the ghosts we’re always talking about,”

Carver made no move to ask what she meant. The door rattled slightly, another drop of molten snow dripped onto the floor, and Robyn rested her head on Carver’s broad shoulder. The orange flames twisted and twirled in a dance dictated by the draught. Carver pulled one of Thyra’s quilts off the Herald’s bed and draped it around their shoulders, and his head came to rest on top of Robyn’s.

“Never thought I’d say this, but I miss the dwarf,” Carver mumbled, making Robyn smile.

“He’s going to be gone for a while now, Thyra too,” Robyn said sadly. “At least the Herald isn’t some uptight, holier-than-thou noblewoman devoted to Andraste, and is actually funny.”

“Yeah, it could be worse,” Carver agreed. Another gust of wind made the window shutters bang against their frames with loud protests from the wood. “Maker’s breath, if this weather doesn’t let up I swear I’ll-”

Robyn grinned, once more eternally grateful to Thyra and her generosity. “I’m sure the Herald won’t mind if you want to stay here at night and out of the weather. I can’t imagine what it’s like in the tents,”

“Pretty shit, if we’re being honest,” Carver confirmed, “Alright, I’ll bring my bedroll in here tonight, if you don’t mind. I’m not sleeping in the Herald of Andraste’s bed,”

“Do whatever you want,” Robyn said, “At least if a demon appears at the foot of my bed, I’ll have a strong Templar to dispatch it,”

Carver snorted. “And at least I’ll wake up in the morning with all ten of my toes still attached,”

A comfortable silence followed, and Robyn almost fell asleep. Worries of the Organisation reaching out to her again, or having her cover blown, or being murdered in her sleep by Sister Nightingale’s agents, seemed to feel unimportant after some time. They were very much still there, and Robyn suspected that they would never leave until she left Thedas itself, but the warmth of the fire, Carver’s furnace-like skin and Thyra’s haven of a cabin at least chased away the fear of freezing to death.

Robyn smiled. It was the little things, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long! Since Robyn isn't moving about with the Inquisitor it's kinda hard to think of interesting things for her to do, since I'm not a huge fan of big timeskips. This chapter was a bit of a filler with a deeper look into Carver's character- I hope it seems plausible. I've also been thinking about my summary- do you think I should change it? Is it too vague, too long etc, or should it be an extract from the first chapter, like the "I'm a messenger of the Maker," part?
> 
> Also sorry for the shortness of this chapter too, but I felt drawing it out would just make it boring. I've probably made loads of spelling and grammatical mistakes too. 
> 
> ((this is reeeaally turning into a trainwreck lmao but I promise I have an actual plot and sub-plots sketched out so stick around pls))

**Author's Note:**

> My absolute guilty pleasure is reading girl-falls-into-Thedas, girl-falls-into-Middle-Earth, girl-falls-into-Westeros type fics, but I wanted to explore the possibility of two worlds being intertwined without one being fictional. This train wreck is the result of that weird conscious stream of ideas one gets at 2am.


End file.
